


Cut to the chase

by faithtastic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, F/F, Hair Salon, Heavy Flirtation, Sass, Smut, The opposite of a slow burn, this is a speed run
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-12 01:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20555681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: She was told this particular stylist is heavily in-demand, booked solidly for months in advance, but all she had to do was name-drop Indra and the salon would magically find the time to squeeze her in.Or:Lexa is a hair stylist and Clarke gets turned on at the salon.It doesn't get any deeper than that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to syn for beta duties.

The salon is smaller, more unassuming than Clarke was expecting for its supposed ultra exclusivity. There’s a small reception podium at the entrance, two battered leather couches in the waiting area, four stations, a row of vintage sinks along the back wall. The decor ticks all the hipster clichés; exposed brickwork, reclaimed wood, wrought iron fixtures, naked lightbulbs dangling on long cords from the ceiling. Slinky beats play over the sound system, a little too much bass for comfort, and Clarke begins to wonder if this is really the right place. It’s hard to imagine Indra, with her sleek power suits and an AirPod perpetually stuck in her ear, sitting in one of those old-fashioned barber’s chairs. But it was on the studio exec’s recommendation that Clarke made the appointment. She was told this particular stylist is heavily in-demand, booked solidly for months in advance, but all she had to do was name-drop Indra and the salon would magically find the time to squeeze her in.

Which is how Clarke finds herself in Los Feliz at noon on a Tuesday.

Reception is manned by a tall, muscular guy with a shaved head, a face full of piercings, and an elaborate tattoo on his neck. Based on appearances alone, Clarke assumes he’s going to have an attitude, but he offers a disarmingly friendly smile as she slides off her sunglasses, a spark of recognition in his eyes.

“Hi, Clarke Griffin. I have an appointment with—”

“Lexa. I’ll take it from here, Lincoln.”

A woman stands to the side, eyes coolly appraising. Clarke hadn’t even heard the approach, and she’s a little thrown by it, by Lexa in general.

Because Lexa is… not at all what Clarke had imagined. Well, she’s not sure what she expected. Someone more seasoned to match the reputation that precedes her. With her doe eyes and elfin features and a mouth that's default setting seems to be a perfect pout, Lexa can’t be a day older than twenty-five.

Remembering her manners, Clarke offers her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Lexa’s grip is surprisingly firm, her long, slender fingers wrapping around Clarke’s own and squeezing once.

“Let’s get you settled, hm,” Lexa says, leading Clarke over to the sole empty chair. “Can I offer you a refreshment? We have water, coffee, tea, craft beer, wine. Or I can send Tris to the juice bar down the street if you want something else...?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Around them the salon is abuzz with activity; three other stylists cutting, applying foils, blow-drying while their clients chatter and a young girl goes around with a broom sweeping the floor.

Clarke meets Lexa’s eyes in the mirror. 

Something about the intense focus of her gaze leaves Clarke dry-mouthed and wishing she’d accepted that drink after all.

“So—what did you have in mind?”

“A shag.”

There’s a pause.

Lexa raises one eyebrow. The faintest hint of a smirk twitches at the corner of her mouth. “Usually, a girl has to take me out to dinner first.”

It takes a second for Clarke to cotton on.

When she does, her eyes widen.

She chokes on a nervous burst of laughter. Touches a hand to her cheek, as though she could ward off the blush, but her face has already turned a deep shade of red.

“Okay, um, let me rephrase that. I need to get a ‘70s-style shag _haircut_ for an upcoming role.”

“I figured,” Lexa says drily. Green eyes sparkle in the reflection. “Relax. I’m just fucking with you.”

That little smirk grows and _God, I wish you would_ is Clarke’s immediate thought as she drinks in Lexa’s appearance.

This town has no shortage of beautiful women: aspiring actresses/models/singers, most bartending or waiting tables or hustling in the gig economy, and every single one of them is drop dead gorgeous. But even by LA standards, Lexa is something special. Blessed with naturally full lips, immaculate skin, an enviable mane of chestnut brown hair flowing past her shoulders in perfectly coiffed waves, and the kind of bone structure that devotees of cosmetic procedures would trade their Bel-Air mansions for in a heartbeat. 

And that fitted black shirt and skinny jeans combo on her slim frame is… _oof_. One too many buttons undone, the sleeves rolled unevenly to her elbows, showing sun-kissed forearms and a fascinating fine line tattoo that runs from the wrist of her right hand and disappears beneath the edge of the shirt sleeve.

Okay, okay. 

So Lexa is hot (and possibly gay); whatever.

It’s nothing for Clarke to lose her mind over.

She clears her throat and offers a tight smile. Wills herself to get it together. To be cool, be professional, stop drooling before she causes herself further embarrassment. 

She pulls out her phone. “I’ve got some reference pics the producers sent me, if I could show you?”

“Of course,” Lexa says, still with that wry look that makes Clarke’s stomach flip-flop in a way that she tries to ignore.

But she’s unprepared for the moment Lexa moves in closer, leaning down to look at the screen over Clarke’s shoulder. The sudden nearness flusters her, all too conscious of their proximity, of the subtle fragrance Lexa wears that invades her senses. The scent surrounds Clarke, makes her feel lightheaded and her thoughts fuzzy as she covertly breathes it in.

“Just, um, give me a sec to…”

Her fingers are a little clumsy as she taps and scrolls until she locates the email and opens the attachments. 

The low, thoughtful hum Lexa emits so close to her ear does nothing to help Clarke’s situation. It sends a shiver down her spine, and she shifts in the chair to disguise it.

She clears her throat again, to rid her voice of its conspicuous scratchiness.

“We’d talked about doing like a Stevie Nicks boho vibe,” she explains, then flicks to the next image, “but mid-length, so I can toss it around without taking someone’s eye out.”

A sage nod. “Long bangs; choppy layers; loose waves. Got it.” 

Lexa straightens up and examines a lock of Clarke’s hair, rubbing the strands between her fingers. There is absolutely nothing sexual about it, but Clarke experiences the distinct stir of arousal nonetheless.

Her eyelids flicker. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Lexa is smoothly all business as she discusses cut, colour and texture. And Clarke can only nod along, far too distracted by the slope of Lexa’s jawline to make any valuable contribution to the conversation beyond “sure”, “mhm”, and “okay.” Lexa could be suggesting a two-tone purple mullet and Clarke would be none the wiser, because her attention is helplessly drawn to Lexa’s throat and lower, to the collarbones peeking from the open collared shirt. 

It’s ridiculous, not to mention rude and basically kind of lecherous, but Clarke can’t tear her gaze away from the several inches of golden skin on display.

Absently, she licks her lips. 

When she does finally force herself to look up, locking eyes with Lexa in the mirror again, the sight of her own dilated pupils is like a tiny shock to Clarke’s system.

It doesn’t escape her notice that Lexa’s eyes have gone dark too, an observation that makes her pulse leap and her cheeks grow warm, and suddenly this run-of-the-mill appointment just got a whole lot more intriguing.

The seconds stretch while they stare at one another. Lexa’s hands grip the top of the chair and Clarke isn’t certain if the brush of knuckles against her shoulder blades is real or imagined.

It’s Lexa who breaks eye contact at last, turning her head to catch the attention of the teenager with the broom. “Tris. Grab me a cape, will you?”

And, Jesus, the view it affords Clarke of the sharp hinge of that _jawline_, the way the cord of tendon in Lexa’s neck stands out in relief. She wants to drag her tongue up the length of muscle slowly, see what noises it might draw from this woman.

She’s still thinking about it when Lexa murmurs, “Sit tight, I’ll be back once I’ve mixed the colour solutions.”

While Lexa disappears into a side room, Tris helps Clarke into a full-length, black polyester cape that flutters around her legs when she sits back down.

Minutes later, Lexa returns wearing disposable gloves and an apron over her clothes. Hair tied back. Glasses; the kind with thick black frames, and Clarke has to press her lips together to smother a smile. Especially since Lexa is pushing a little cart. The whole image is strangely endearing, at odds with Lexa’s otherwise achingly too-cool demeanour. She looks like a nerd about to conduct a science experiment.

Eyeing the various plastic tubs on the cart, Clarke realises she probably should’ve been paying attention during the consultation. She vaguely remembers Lexa saying something about lowlights, graduating a darker shade from the roots to the midpoint to give more dimension to Clarke’s natural blonde. In the grand scheme of things it isn’t a drastic change, although it’s still more adventurous than what Clarke would usually go for, preferring to play it safe when it comes to her personal style. But it’s for the job, and she trusts in Lexa’s expertise; Indra doesn’t give praise lightly, after all.

Lexa doesn’t talk while she works, apart from the occasional request for Clarke to tilt her head this way or that. She is methodical, focused and efficient as she dabs the dye over small sections and nimbly folds them up in foil. Clarke is content to watch for a time, but the longer the silence goes on, the more she itches to end it, her curiosity piqued by the woman in front of her.

“How long have you been doing this?” she pipes up at last. Drawls with no small amount of irony directed at herself, “Hair stylist to the stars.”

Lexa glances up for a second, then returns to the task at hand. “About ten years.”

Clarke is unable to mask her incredulity. “Were you _twelve_ when you started? I thought we had pretty strict anti-child labour laws in this country.”

That earns a barely-there smirk but Lexa doesn’t miss a beat, dipping the brush into the tub and painting another section. “I was eighteen.”

_Oh_.

Well. Clarke feels marginally better about ogling Lexa now she knows they’re actually roughly the same age.

“Alright, now I want to know where this fountain of youth is that you’ve been drinking from.”

Lexa shakes her head, the smirk edging into a fuller smile, and to be the cause of it gives Clarke a tiny thrill.

“What about you?” Those eyes flick towards her face in the mirror once more. Lingering a bit longer this time. “Did you always want to act?”

“I’m such a cliché. I got bitten by the bug in college. Switched my major to Performing Arts and, pretentious nitwit that I was, insisted I was only ever going to do serious theatre, dahling.” Clarke rolls her eyes at her younger self. “But then I got an agent and he told me that if I wanted to have a career and not, you know, suffer in abject poverty for the rest of my adult life, I should move to LA.”

Not that it was all sunshine and roses when she arrived here. For the first year, she couch surfed and occasionally slept in her car. Subsisted on a steady diet of instant noodles and whatever other cheap nourishment she could afford. The constant rejection was hard to swallow. Being judged on looks more than talent left her frustrated and disillusioned. 

She was flat broke, down to the last fifty dollars in her checking account, about ready to quit and drive back east when her luck turned and she finally caught a break. In the space of a month she managed to book a couple of commercials, secured some voiceover work, clicked with a sympathetic casting director on a police procedural, getting to portray a ‘victim of the week’ on the mortuary slab. From there she made slow inroads: from speaking-part day player, to guest spots, to a recurring role on a mediocre genre show aimed at the teen demographic and sex-starved straight housewives. Then came the audition for this current as-yet-untitled project, followed by second and third callbacks as the producers narrowed down their choices.

When she got the good news straight from Indra, Clarke didn’t fully believe the job was hers, convinced it was all an elaborate prank. For days afterwards, she braced herself for the rug to be pulled out from under her feet, expecting to be regretfully informed that they’d changed their minds, that on further reflection she wasn’t what they envisioned for the role.

Even now, weeks into prep, she still has to pinch herself. Because it’s a dream come true: a prestige drama on premium cable with a cast to die for. It has Emmy-bait written all over it. Yeah, hers is a fairly small part but it’s instrumental to the story, something she can really get her teeth into and prove her range as an actress. It’s an exciting and scary challenge, but one she’s more than ready for.

She realises she’s retreated into her head and huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “Honestly, if I wasn’t an actress, I don’t know what I’d do. I’m totally unqualified for anything else.”

“Seems kind of harsh.” Lexa has finished with the foils and is carefully stirring the next tub of hair dye. Eyes on the brush swirling around the mixture. “I mean, you could be a radio host or the voice of an A.I. assistant.” She looks up. “I could listen to you recite Google search results all day long.”

It’s such a breathtakingly corny line. The audacity, really. But Lexa’s smooth delivery and the prolonged, direct glance that accompanies it one hundred percent works in her favour.

Clarke bites her lip and drops her gaze. “Good to know I have options if I find myself unemployed.”

With the open flirtation, this tacit acknowledgment of attraction, the energy between them shifts perceptibly. Neither are shy about looking—although Clarke is aware of how comical she appears right now with all the tin foil sprouting from her scalp in every direction; that Lexa is able to see past it is a small miracle.

“I did once catch an episode of that show you were on,” Lexa says, starting on the roots. The brush strokes are more slapdash as she applies the dye liberally, the sharp chemical smell making Clarke’s nostrils twitch. “The one with the improbably young and hot, yet also incredibly dumb astronauts, who—”

She cuts Lexa off with a groan. 

“God. Don’t. Not my proudest work, but it paid the bills.” Clarke sighs. “Most people in this business don’t have the luxury of choice. You take what you can get. If you’re fortunate and ambitious, if you work hard enough and make the right connections, it’s a stepping stone to something better.”

“I was going to say you were good,” is Lexa’s pointed response. She pauses, then adds, “I really believed you were overcome by alien pheromones on that planet that looked exactly like British Columbia.”

Clarke’s eyes narrow when she spots Lexa’s smirk. “Oh, fuck you.”

“Now we’re back to propositioning me.”

“And you can kiss goodbye to a tip.”

“How about a date instead?”

Clarke gapes slightly but doesn’t answer; too stunned.

After a final dab along Clarke’s middle parting, Lexa puts down the brush and peels off the gloves. 

“I’ll leave you to think about it while the colour sets, hm? You’ve got—” She checks the watch on her wrist. “Just under forty-five minutes to decide where you’d like to go. In the meantime, Tris will bring you a bottle of mineral water.”

Clarke watches her depart with a blush, eyes glued to Lexa’s retreating form, dipping down only for a second to check out her ass in those jeans before guiltily cutting away.

  


* * *

  


For the next while Clarke pretends to be engrossed in her phone, idly scrolling through her social feeds, checking the mentions on Instagram and Twitter. Beyond the small but devoted army of fans of The Ark, she’s largely unknown to the average person in the street. Only on rare occasions is she ever stopped for a photo. For the most part, she’s able to go about her daily life and run errands without intrusion or anyone making a fuss. But online, there are a few dozen loyal followers who clamour for her attention and sometimes she throws them a bone in the form of a retweet. It’s nice to be nice, and this whole fan interaction thing is still kind of a novelty.

On a whim, she snaps a mirror selfie and cross-posts it to her accounts (#makeover), and within minutes the likes start racking up.

While she has half an eye on her feed, she also keeps sneaking glances at Lexa, busy with another client on the other side of the salon. Now and then, they catch each other’s eye in the reflection and every time it happens Clarke feels another little jolt of giddy excitement.

By the time Lexa returns to check on Clarke, unwrapping the foils to inspect the dye and humming her approval, Clarke has run out of patience. She’s been sitting on a sassy retort for too long, rehearsing it over and over in her head, and now is her big chance to deliver a killer one-liner worthy of—

“All done.” Lexa nudges her head in the direction of the sinks. “Come with me and we’ll get this washed out.”

The slow realisation that Lexa is going to be the person to give her a shampoo knocks the wind out of Clarke’s sails. Flusters her all over again. Because someone massaging her scalp can be unintentionally stimulating at the best of times, but when that someone looks like Lexa? Uh-huh, no. This is going to be disastrous for Clarke’s underwear.

In a daze that she’s going to blame on inhaling chemical fumes, she follows Lexa to the sinks and takes the seat Lexa points towards. A soft, thick towel is draped around Clarke’s shoulders and Lexa tells her to lean back. The water runs for a minute, allowing it to get up to temperature before Lexa tests the spray. 

“How’s that? Too hot?”

“No, it’s fine,” Clarke says, voice sounding rusty.

Lexa slides her hand to the base of Clarke’s skull to scoop her hair up into a loose hold, and Clarke barely has the presence of mind to stop a soft groan from slipping out. Another noise gets clogged in her throat as Lexa’s fingers sweep over her forehead and temples, keeping the warm water from spilling into her eyes.

As the dye is rinsed off, Clarke finds herself in a weird liminal state, hovering between total relaxation and being attuned to every touch, simultaneously melting into the seat and tingling all over. And it only gets worse once Lexa lathers up the shampoo, working her fingers against Clarke’s scalp, alternating between firm scrubs and gentle kneading, and it all feels amazing. Lexa’s hands are _magic_. She sighs quietly in contentment, eyelids sliding shut as she gives over to the sensations, floating away on a cloud of blissful tranquility until—

“About this date, then.”

Clarke peers up only to have her suspicions be confirmed that Lexa is every bit as attractive from this inverted angle.

“You’re making a pretty big assumption that I’ll say yes,” is Clarke’s arch response. “I could be in a relationship.”

There’s a slight curve to those beestung lips and she has a sudden urge to kiss that smirk away.

“Are you?”

Clarke draws in a breath. “No. But—”

“Just saying, if you were, I’d be up for the challenge of stealing you away.”

Lexa winks. Actually fucking winks, and Clarke hates to admit it but she dies a little inside, swooning at this display of supreme confidence. Outwardly, she’s less impressed.

“Do you often hit on your clients? Seems like a harassment suit waiting to happen.”

The spark of mischief in Lexa’s eyes is extinguished and Clarke instantly regrets the sardonic barb. 

“No.” Lexa’s jaw tenses. Her face is drawn and serious. “I’m sorry if I misread the signals. I can have someone else—”

“You didn’t, Lexa,” Clarke says. She lets out a sigh. “I’m just trying to deflect with poorly judged humour because I don’t want to seem too eager, alright?”

Maybe it’s the fact she’s looking at Lexa upside down, but Clarke feels all the more vulnerable for her honesty.

They’re both quiet for a spell, while the water drums off the porcelain sink and hair dryers blast nearby.

At last, Lexa gives a shallow nod. The corner of her mouth ticks up and her eyes take on a softer glow, magnified by the lenses of those geeky glasses. And it’s possibly just the lighting here, but her eyes are so _green_ they don’t seem real.

“Well, in that case.” Lexa wets her lips and Clarke watches the quick dart of tongue with interest. “If you’re free sometime this week or next, maybe we could hang out together.”

“Mm. I'll have my assistant check my calendar and get back to you.”

Lexa’s answering pout and slight eye roll of faux exasperation is nothing short of delightful.

  


* * *

  


“Are you allowed to spill any details about this role, or is it top secret?”

Even as she asks the question, Lexa’s laser focus doesn’t waver. She wields the scissors with precision and flair, a maestro at work. 

“It’s for HBO. About a fictional music venue loosely based on CBGB in New York. Have you heard of it?” Off Lexa’s blank look, Clarke fills in, “It was this iconic club in the East Village where all these legendary punk and new wave bands played.”

“Like The Ramones?”

“Mhm. And Blondie. Talking Heads. All those amazing groups.”

Lexa nods to indicate she’s listening. She moves around the chair, hip brushing against Clarke’s wrist on the armrest. It might have been accidental but it makes Clarke lose her train of thought for a second.

“Anyway, um, John Murphy is the lead. He plays this ambitious, sleazy, coke fiend music promoter and one of the up-and-coming bands he books features yours truly on lead vocals.”

“You sing?”

Clarke shrugs. “I’ve dabbled. Although, this is my first onscreen outing.”

Talking about it, Clarke feels a frisson of exhilaration mixed with an undercurrent of anxiety. Because, aside from bit parts in musical theatre choruses and a few half-assed jamming sessions with musician friends, she hasn’t done anything serious like this before. But Indra, Marcus and the other producers seemed enthusiastic about what they heard at the auditions, and only mentioned vocal coaching to build on her natural ability. A couple of weeks into it, her confidence has grown in leaps and bounds, and she really does feel like she has the pipes to pull it off.

“What’s your character like?”

“She’s kind of an amalgam of several pioneering frontwomen of rock. So I’ve been studying tons of archive footage—Suzi Quatro, Patti Smith, Debbie Harry, Cherie Currie, Chrissie Hynde—to really get a handle on the tough, spunky attitude of the time.”

Lexa stoops, using the comb to pull a section of Clarke’s hair taut, and Clarke feels the light gust of breath against her cheek, hears the soft snick of the scissors. 

Snip snip snip.

She keeps talking to distract herself. 

“The casting notes said they wanted someone who could embody rockstar magnetism and swaggering sexual energy. The kind of woman who’s equally at home smashing beer bottles and tearing up the stage as she is snorting cocaine off her lovers’ naked bodies.” Clarke chuckles a little self-consciously. “I’m not sure how they saw those particular qualities in _me_ but I’m glad they did.” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I guess acting is seventy-five percent costume and makeup, and the rest is being able to successfully bullshit people into believing you’re someone you’re not.”

“I don’t know about that,” Lexa murmurs, as she steps in front of the chair. 

She hooks her fingers under Clarke’s chin and tips her face up gently, and if Lexa detects Clarke’s quiet intake of breath, her controlled expression gives nothing away.

She snips a tiny lock off Clarke’s new bangs. 

Her gaze wanders, landing on Clarke’s lips then flicking back up to lock onto wide eyes.

“The sexual energy I’m feeling from you right now is off the charts.”

Never in her life has Clarke wanted to make out with someone so badly, and the gradual stretch of Lexa’s smile, the twinkle in her eyes says: _I know_.

It’s imperative that Clarke recovers some of the balance of power in this situation, for the sake of her own ego. 

“Sure you aren’t projecting? From where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re the one who’s itching to get into my pants.”

Lexa’s mouth twists. 

“What?” Clarke cocks an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”

The other woman stands tall and studies Clarke from beneath her lashes. Lips pursed. Arms folded. She tips her head to the side and appears to come to a conclusion. 

When Lexa leans down again, she braces her hands on the arms of the chair. Brings her mouth next to Clarke’s ear, and Clarke shivers at this complete disregard for her personal space, a surge of prickling heat rushing over her skin.

“Given the opportunity,” Lexa whispers, “I would absolutely fuck you on this chair. Both couches. The table in the break room. About a dozen more times in the place where I’m crashing above the shop.”

Clarke blows out an unsteady breath.

That’s… a lot of orgasms.

Possibly more than she can handle in one day without carb-loading in advance. 

(Yet another reason to curse this diet the producers insisted she go on to attain the requisite heroin chic rocker look.)

Lexa draws back several inches and Clarke’s stomach swoops to see the lust so obviously etched across her features. Plush bottom lip caught between her teeth. The dark, dark, heavy-lidded stare that keeps dropping to Clarke’s mouth.

It makes her head spin. 

“Nothing to say?” Lexa asks, low and husky. “Or are you going to leave me hanging?”

“No, I’m just—” It takes all of Clarke’s restraint not to grab the front of Lexa’s shirt and reel her in. “Thinking I should’ve picked out nicer lingerie this morning.”

Lexa’s eyes flash and Clarke can guess what’s going through her mind; she’s entertaining similar ideas.

“When do you get off? You could give me a tour of that apartment.”

Forward, but she gets the impression Lexa isn’t going to judge her too harshly for it. Maybe the many hours she spent watching badass rock vixens strut their stuff is starting to rub off on her. She’s channelling that raw energy in her own life, going after what—and who—she wants without shame or apology.

“You’re my last appointment today.”

“Lucky.”

“Not so much for the clients who’ll need to reschedule.”

The slow, self-satisfied half grin that embeds itself into Lexa’s pinked cheeks induces tiny palpitations in Clarke. Not just her heart but lower down, too. 

  


* * *

  


“What do you think?”

Lexa stands behind the chair, taking the jagged, razor-finished ends of Clarke’s artfully dishevelled locks between her fingers. Her expression is unreadable, except for the subtle pout of her lips as she scrutinises the symmetry of her work.

For her part, Clarke is very much enjoying the pleasurable tug on her scalp. 

“Good shag.”

In the mirror, Lexa casts her eyes towards the ceiling. “Surely we’ve exhausted that joke by now.”

“Have we, though? I think I could get another two or three cracks out of it, minimum.”

Lexa only releases a quiet sigh, combing her long fingers through the flicked-out layers at the back to give the volume a little extra oomph. And Clarke could get easily get used to this: Lexa’s hands in her hair. It already feels familiar. 

“I love it, Lexa. Genuinely.”

The cut is fucking _awesome_. She looks like the illegitimate love child of Stevie Nicks and Farrah Fawcett, conceived during an epic three-day odyssey of drug-fuelled debauchery and mayhem. Pour her into a pair of skintight black leather pants, apply a fuckton of smoky liner and silver eyeshadow, and she’s ready to be inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

If she’s being honest, she wasn’t sold on the bangs at first but they really frame her face and bring out her features.

Yeah… it’s safe to say she’s feeling it.

And Lexa is too, if the way she’s staring is any indication.

“So…” Clarke lifts her eyebrows expectantly.

“Right.” Lexa springs into action. “I’ll take this—“ 

She plucks the cutting collar from Clarke’s shoulders and puts it aside. Helps Clarke out of the cape and guides her towards the reception area with a hand at the small of her back. 

“Linc, could you ring it up for me?” 

He perks up as soon as his eyes land on Clarke, and he gives the new ‘do a nod of approval. 

Lexa lowers her voice for Clarke’s ears only. “I have to make some calls to clear my schedule, but you can wait here or there’s a decent coffee shop across the street.”

“I‘ll wait.” 

Clarke is antsy enough without adding caffeine to the equation.

Lexa remains where she is, eyes making a slow sweep of Clarke’s outfit, from the peep toe heels, bare legs exposed by the short, one-piece romper suit, lingering on the line of her cleavage. Getting stuck there for a second. And Clarke sees the small gulp, the slight bob of Lexa’s throat as she swallows.

When their eyes meet again, Lexa’s are dark and full of glittering promise. It’s a look that leaves no doubt about what her intentions are for the rest of the afternoon.

Clarke sends her off with a hushed, “Be quick.”

While she deals with payment—trying not to wince too obviously at the charge on her credit card (this place definitely has the price tag to reflect its celebrity clientele)—she leaves a tip generous enough to make Lincoln’s brown eyes bulge almost as much as his biceps do.

He almost falls over himself to oblige Clarke with a snap for Insta. She’s in the midst of posing up a storm for their mini photo shoot when Lexa returns, a little red in the face, a backpack slung over one shoulder, hair loose and flowing free again.

“Ready?” Lexa asks Clarke.

Lincoln looks perplexed as Clarke relieves him of her phone with her thanks. 

He frowns. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I cleared it with Anya. She already gave me shit so don’t start, okay?”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Later.” 

Clarke gives him a sheepish parting wave as she hustles to keep up with Lexa’s long strides. As soon as they step outside onto the sidewalk, she reaches for Lexa’s wrist.

“Hey. Look, Lexa, I don’t want you to get into trouble with your boss because of...”

She trails off, silenced by Lexa crowding into her space, backing her against the whitewashed wall. 

“Me,” Clarke finishes on an exhale.

Lexa’s hands cup her neck, thumbs stroking over her jaw, and Clarke draws in a hurried breath before Lexa breaches the final gap.

Clarke sighs into the soft crush of lips. Waits only a beat before she pulls Lexa’s lean frame flush against her body by the belt loops of her jeans. Heart racing, knees trembling as Lexa’s mouth shifts and the kiss deepens with mutual hunger.

“Upstairs?” Clarke pants out after probably a solid thirty seconds of thoroughly acquainting herself with the contours of Lexa’s mouth. 

Lexa nods and surges forward again, claiming a string of heated kisses that leave Clarke wobbly on her feet when they separate.

“Side alley. Entrance is around back.”

The fact Lexa only seems capable of speaking in fragmented sentences is a tremendous ego boost, but Clarke’s not going to boast about it. Yet.

Tangling their fingers together, Lexa tugs Clarke in the right direction with a determined gait, charging down the alleyway and up the stairs to the second floor.

After some minor fumbling with her keys, Lexa gets the door unlocked and, once it slams shut behind them, she drops her bag and pulls Clarke to her. Without anyone around to bear witness, this kiss is dirtier than the ones that went before. (Although, Clarke really hopes no random bystanders filmed the impromptu make out on their phones and posted the videos online. She’s not ready to make her debut on Perez.)

Their lips slant together, mouths open, breath coming in harsh, fast puffs. Clarke dips her tongue inside and Lexa’s groan slices through her, cuts to the quick. With a muffled growl, Clarke attacks the buttons on Lexa’s shirt, clumsy in her haste to uncover skin. She yanks the open shirt from Lexa’s shoulders, but pauses when she gets her first full glimpse of the sleeve tattoo that runs the complete length of Lexa’s arm. 

It’s stunning. An entire woodland scene depicted in black ink: canopies of leaves and branches sprouting over the expanse of skin; creatures of the forest deftly woven into the intricate illustration. There’s a bird soaring over the treetops on the ball of Lexa’s shoulder; a family of owls perched above the inside crook of her elbow; a deer grazing on moss and lichen on the forest floor beside her wrist.

Clarke is awe of the artistry, but Lexa doesn’t let her admire the tattoo for long, fitting a hand around the back of Clarke’s neck and recapturing her lips. While they trade feverish kisses, Lexa unties the drawstring at Clarke’s waist, makes quick work of the buttons down the front of the romper. She doesn’t wait to strip Clarke out of it, just shoves her hand inside and down, over Clarke’s stomach and into her underwear. 

Warm fingers dive through wet heat.

They both groan into the kiss.

“God, Clarke.”

“We’ve been eye-fucking in the mirror for the past two hours. What did you expect?”

They each grapple to get the other out of their clothes, shedding items as they stumble to the bedroom. Never ceasing contact. Mouths sealed; hands roaming, grasping at flesh. Greedy, demanding kisses that set every inch of Clarke’s body alight.

She moans when Lexa pushes her against the wall, is weak for the way Lexa takes her wrists and pins them above her head, how Lexa crushes into her.

But then Lexa’s gaze drops and her breathing alters.

Whole face going slack as her eyes trip over Clarke’s bust.

It’s a temporary lapse in concentration, but it makes Clarke feel good about herself. Pleased that even in this plain, everyday bra, her breasts still have the power to make hot girls gawk.

To her credit, Lexa recovers swiftly.

A smooth, bare thigh wedges itself between Clarke’s legs and she rocks her pelvis down to meet it, the rub of damp cotton causing a delicious kind of friction.

Lexa’s face remains close, swollen lips only a tantalising inch away. Her eyes are hooded and black, blown pupils surrounded by the thinnest ring of green, and that _look_ alone is going to figure prominently in Clarke’s fantasies. She wants to lock it in to memory, and revisit it again and again.

But that’s for later. 

In the present, she’s focused on this: the desperate grind of her hips against tensed muscle, the pressure direct and constant and exactly what she needs. 

It’s over within a matter of seconds.

The breakneck speed at which orgasm rushes up on her catches her wholly off guard. She goes from rolling undulations in one moment to jerky thrusts in the next. Gasping. Crying out. A hoarse, half bitten-off yelp of Lexa’s name as she shudders through the powerful tremors.

_Fuck_.

Part of her should be embarrassed she didn’t even make it to a horizontal surface before she came.

She tips her head back, a raspy, breathless wheeze of laughter bubbling up.

Lexa kisses Clarke’s neck, nips at her jaw. “What?” 

“Just—God, I…” 

Clarke stops herself, because Lexa is arrogant enough without learning that this is the quickest Clarke has reached orgasm in recent memory. Maybe ever. And that puffed-up ego hardly needs to be inflated any further. 

“I’ve had worse,” Clarke concludes.

The grudging compliment doesn’t deter the spread of Lexa’s smug smile as her lips travel down Clarke’s exposed throat.

The hands holding her wrists in place let go, and she clings to Lexa’s shoulders, fingers digging in while Lexa’s open mouth latches to her pulse point. The hot, wet suction makes Clarke’s knees buckle slightly, and she grabs Lexa by the cheeks, guiding her back up to her mouth.

Lexa kisses like she can’t get enough and Clarke is right there with her, already hopelessly addicted to the lush, soft give of those pouty lips.

“Please tell me you have a sturdy bed in this place,” she husks, breath hitching as Lexa’s splayed hands slide around her hips to grab her ass. 

Without warning, Lexa lifts her up. Swallows Clarke’s small gasp of shock and arousal at this unexpected show of physical strength. Instinctively, her legs wrap around Lexa’s waist as they cross the threshold of the bedroom, holding on tight as Lexa carries her a few short steps to topple onto the unmade double bed.

They land with a quiet, “oof.”

The glib remark that’s on the tip of Clarke’s tongue about Lexa being stronger than she looks vanishes. 

Because Lexa is between her legs. A dark, voracious glint in her eyes that leaves Clarke’s mouth parched and other parts overflowing.

Lexa maintains heavy eye contact as she slips off the bed to kneel on the floor, as she hooks her fingers into the waistband of Clarke’s underwear.

Propped on her elbows, Clarke watches and waits, holding her breath.

“Is it okay if I go down on you?” Lexa asks.

While consent is sexy and all, Clarke would’ve thought the answer was patently obvious by the impatient wriggle of her hips. But she nods anyway.

“Consider this an unequivocal yes.”

Lexa smirks and shimmies Clarke’s underwear down until the lace is sitting low on her hips. 

“Fingers?”

“Are very welcome, also.”

With those parameters agreed, Lexa doesn’t hesitate to peel Clarke’s underwear the rest of the way off. She puts her hands on Clarke, palms gliding from ankle to knee and along her thighs, goosebumps rising in the wake of the touch. On the reverse journey, Lexa drags the tips of her fingers over Clarke’s skin, blunt nails scraping lightly down her thighs.

It’s too much.

She squirms. “Lexa.”

The smirk grows. “Something you want?”

A frustrated noise escapes.

Lexa strokes a path back up to Clarke’s hips.

She’s trembling with arousal and anticipation. So she decides to wrestle back some control since Lexa is being such a fucking tease.

Clarke spreads her legs.

In an instant, Lexa’s eyes grow wide and so, so round and she utters a choked, unintelligible sound that might be some scrambled version of Clarke’s name.

“Is there something _you_ want?” Clarke volleys back.

Lexa’s eyelids shutter and she licks her lips, her dark stare zeroed in. Mesmerised. But within seconds she’s in motion, hands hooking behind Clarke’s knees and dragging her to the edge of the bed.

As Lexa’s mouth descends, Clarke’s hips rise up. She gasps at the first contact. Arches into the broad sweep of Lexa’s tongue moving through her, a deep guttural moan rising up her throat. She reaches out without thinking, threading her fingers into Lexa’s hair at the crown; an encouragement to keep going, please God, don’t stop. Her other hand scrambles to grip the rumpled sheets, clutching and releasing while Lexa licks firm circles around her clit.

Lexa applies the same singular concentration and diligence to eating a woman out as she does to her craft. Every lap and flick of that expert tongue drives Clarke higher and higher, speeds the unstoppable momentum of her hips.

But it isn’t until Lexa dips into her, edging inside, replacing the lost pressure on Clarke’s clit with a thumb, that Clarke feels the tingling onset of orgasm. White hot heat and pressure that builds, static noise ringing in her ears as Lexa draws shapes and pushes in deep enough for Clarke to clench around the warm, wet muscle.

Their eyes meet along the length of Clarke’s body and it’s electric.

And then suddenly she’s _there_.

That perfect moment where the waves rush over her and her body goes taut, spine arching off the mattress. 

And Lexa, Lexa is relentless. She just keeps on rubbing with her thumb. Groans, low and appreciative as Clarke begins to quake, both fists tugging carelessly at Lexa’s hair as she rides it out, a litany of curses punctuated by heavy gasps filling the air.

Sweaty and spent, Clarke flops against the sheets. She stares up at the ceiling, unseeing, as she tries to catch her breath.

A moment later, Lexa swims into view.

If Clarke thought Lexa was insufferable before, she’s positively glowing with self-satisfaction now. Preening and proud. So full of herself. Even with Clarke smeared all over her lips and chin, hair a wild nest.

But, God, Lexa is sexy.

One bra strap sliding off her shoulder. Small breasts encased in black satin. The slope of her torso leading to a toned stomach. Booty shorts that show off legs for days.

The tattoo. 

Clarke wants to see the tendons flexing under the skin, bringing the body art to life as Lexa fucks into her.

First, though, she really needs Lexa to kiss her. 

She pulls Lexa down, eager to feel skin on skin. Seeks Lexa’s lips, a moan leaking out when she tastes herself. The initial urgency soon gives way to deep, languid kisses. Slow and surprisingly gentle, but no less arousing for it. And Clarke knows without a doubt that Lexa’s mouth could ruin her in a hundred different ways.

Her hands trail down Lexa’s back, feeling the subtle shift of muscles. 

The bra clasp releases with a quick twist of Clarke’s fingers and she tugs it off and away, cupping her hands around soft flesh and hard nipples. Living for the catch of Lexa’s breath, the faint whine as she arches into Clarke’s palms. Every sound that Lexa makes fuels Clarke’s desire. She wants to collect and catalogue as many of them as she can. 

The muffled, startled half-giggle she gets when she rolls them over might be her favourite so far.

Beneath her, Lexa is beaming and Clarke takes a moment just to look, to soak in the view. Taking in the tiny crinkles around bright green eyes, the crease above her top lip, the splash of colour in the round apples of her cheeks.

Lexa’s wide, unrestrained smile is a lovely, breathtaking sight.

“I hope this place is soundproofed,” Clarke says, to avoid blurting out something stupidly sentimental. “It’d be really embarrassing if your coworkers overheard you getting railed through the mattress.”

An eyebrow quirks, but Lexa’s grin doesn’t falter.

“Oh, is that what’s going to happen?”

Clarke’s hand skims down Lexa’s navel and into her shorts, finding her slick and ready.

“Mhm. So, fair warning, you might want to find something to bite down on.”

“I’m notoriously quiet.”

“We’ll see.”

  


* * *

  


Lexa isn’t quiet.

Not when Clarke’s mouth is on her breasts, sucking the nipples to stiff, puckered peaks.

Or when Clarke has two fingers pumping inside. 

Definitely not when she adds a third and starts to curl the tips in tandem with the swipe of her thumb over Lexa’s clit.

The noises spill forth freely into Clarke’s mouth as she drives Lexa towards the brink.

By the time she shakes apart, Lexa is a beautiful, shivering, gasping mess, and Clarke is enthralled by every second of it. But the part she likes most is how Lexa clings to her while she comes down from the high. 

Long limbs entangled with her own. 

Arms looped around her neck. 

Belly to sweat-slick belly and chest to chest. 

Not an inch between them as they share the same hot, muggy air.

  


* * *

  


The sun has already sunk low in the sky once they’ve exhausted each other, orange bleeding into pink and blue behind wispy clouds. It casts a warm glow over their still entwined bodies, nude except for the sheets draped over their lower halves.

At any point they could have renewed attentions, rekindled that fire, but their touches have slowed, the intent to soothe rather than arouse.

And besides, Clarke is starving.

The loud rumble of her stomach gives it away.

Lexa regards her with a small, almost fond smile. “Hungry?”

Feeling oddly shy, considering what they’ve been doing for the last several hours, Clarke hedges, “I could eat.”

Lexa rises, still gloriously naked, and stretches her arms above her head, working out the kinks in her muscles with a soft grunt.

Confronted by this vision of perfection, it takes all of Clarke’s iron will not to drag Lexa back into bed. Because the graceful definition of Lexa’s arms and back, the flare of hips, the tight, high curve of her ass, those legs that go on forever is just plain rude. 

Lexa really struck the jackpot on the genetic lottery, and Clarke is torn between wishing she had a figure like that and wanting to fuck this woman every which way.

Oblivious to Clarke’s predicament, Lexa saunters out the room and returns with her phone. Looks up, and when she notices Clarke’s half-lidded, slack-jawed expression, her smile grows impish.

“What are you in the mood for?”

Another twenty-four hours of this, _you_, please.

What Clarke says is: “I would kill for an In’N’Out Burger. But,” a forlorn sigh, “some kind of salad, I guess. You choose.”

Lexa fingers dance over the screen as she presumably places an order on DoorDash or a similar app. 

“Tell me you’re not on one of those crazy fad diets promoted by GOOP.”

Clarke makes a face at the suggestion. “Oh, God, no. I love food.” She purses her lips and rolls her eyes. “But the first thing Thelonious Jaha said to me during the kickoff meeting was that I had to drop ten pounds in eight weeks.”

“Seriously?” Lexa’s disdain is clear as she wanders over to the closet and starts to rifle through it. 

Given the chance to examine her surroundings while Lexa’s attention is elsewhere, Clarke notes the unopened cardboard boxes stacked in the corner, the absence of any personal items on the nightstand, how bare the walls are.

It seems as though Lexa is only one step above living out of a suitcase, and again Clarke burns with curiosity.

But she files her questions away for now.

“They really wanted that gaunt, strung-out look. And I wanted the role, so.” She shrugs. “Hollywood.”

There’s a lull.

She peers down at the sheets, at the place where the small, soft podge of her stomach used to be; the little muffin top that she personally never had any issue with until Jaha’s assistant gave her the contact details of a trainer-dietician (everyone is hyphenated in LA).

Which is when the self-doubt crept in.

“Also, I wanted to look good for the steamy intimate scenes, you know?”

Lexa turns around, a maroon t-shirt in hand.

“Steamy, huh? Should I be jealous?”

She hoists an enquiring eyebrow and the sight of that, as much as the implications of Lexa’s words makes Clarke blush.

“Uh, trust me, the reality isn’t sexy at all when there’s a dozen guys on the crew staring at you and you’re trying to strategically place your scene partner’s limbs to hide your lumpy bits.”

She watches, biting her lip, as Lexa pulls the oversized shirt over her head. The gold block lettering on the front has faded but ‘Polis High School Athletics Dept’ remains just about legible.

“Besides, what would you have to be jealous of?” Clarke says lightly. She runs her eyes over Lexa’s face, gauging her expression from across the room. “It’s not like we’re dating.”

Lexa tilts her chin up. Makes a noise to the contrary. 

“I _did_ ask you out.”

“So that wasn’t just a tactic to get me into bed?”

“I mean… making you come so many times was a definite bonus, but sex isn’t all I want, Clarke.” 

The cockiness recedes for a moment, Lexa becoming solemn and serious. (As much as anyone can be when they’re pantsless, wearing a shirt with a raccoon mascot on the front, and sporting a severe case of bed hair.)

“I’d like to get to know you.”

It gives Clarke butterflies, causes a warm flutter in her chest. Flattered and gratified to hear that Lexa is interested in more than just her body or a one-off tryst.

Because the feeling is mutual.

Everything about Lexa turns Clarke on. And maybe it’s her libido talking, maybe not, but there’s _something_ here. 

A connection. 

A possibility. 

She turns onto her side, head propped on her hand, and meets Lexa’s eyes squarely.

“So ask me something.”


	2. Chapter 2

“If those are tacos, I might have to get down on one knee right now,” comes a sleep-scratchy voice from behind.

Lexa doesn’t react.

Just smirks, inwardly, as she transfers the two speciality breakfast burritos from the paper bag to the warmed plates on the counter.

“Guess you’ll have to delay that proposal then.”

She hears the faint pad of bare feet approaching, but doesn’t turn around. Instead, busies herself with tossing the scrunched up, empty bag into the trash for recycling.

“Although, trust me—” Opening the refrigerator, she stoops and peers inside. “_This_ is the best burrito you will ever have in your life.”

She moves the six-pack of beer on the bottom shelf aside to reach for the mineral water at the back.

Adds dryly, “So maybe engagement is still on the cards for us.”

”Yeah?” Clarke says, drawing nearer. “Better be worth the hype. And the prenup attorney.”

Unseen, Lexa’s lips twist in amusement.

She grabs a couple of bottled waters, straightens up and straightens her face, kicking the fridge door shut with her heel.

“Oh, it is.”

She isn’t even exaggerating.

One of the advantages of living in this neighbourhood is the abundance of great eating spots nearby. And the simple yet delicious fare from Me Gustus, a lively, unpretentious Mexican joint located just a few blocks away, is among the best in the Eastside. Also something of an undiscovered gem, until that piece on the LA Times website put it on the map—and on the radar of every aficionado within a twenty mile radius, if the lines are anything to go by.

But, suddenly, food isn’t really foremost in Lexa’s mind anymore.

Not when she pivots to face Clarke at last.

Clarke, who’s standing there wearing Lexa’s wrinkled black shirt and nothing else.

Cuffs rolled up.

Shirt gaping open at the bust.

Unbuttoned far enough to reveal a broad stripe of golden skin and a partial glimpse of the curves of her breasts.

The hem skims the tops of Clarke’s thighs, displaying the stretch of smooth, tan legs, all the way down to painted toes, and Lexa’s gaze goes up, up, up.

And while there isn’t any mystery about what’s hidden beneath that shirt, prior knowledge doesn’t stop Lexa’s brain from shorting or her heart from stuttering inside her chest, or do anything to blunt the hot stab of lust that pierces through her.

Because, _fuck_.

Betraying a hint of self-consciousness, Clarke sweeps a hand through her hair, offers a sweet, coy smile while Lexa remains frozen at the counter; silent and staring.

“Is this okay? I just grabbed the first thing—”

She doesn’t get the chance to finish.

Lexa is in front of Clarke in a flash, backing her against the island, cupping either side of her jaw and kissing her. Mouths open. Tongues meeting in a dirty slide.

“Warn a girl first,” Lexa mutters when they pull apart for air, only to tip her head the other way and reconnect their lips. Hands going under the shirt tail to grab Clarke’s bare ass and pull her closer, bringing their bodies flush from thigh to stomach to chest.

Clarke’s low, throaty laughter causes another warm stir between Lexa’s legs, a tightening in her belly.

“I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

God, that _voice_.

It sounds even rustier in the morning. A soft, husky rasp that scrapes down Lexa’s spine like blunt fingernails. It’s hot—_Clarke_ is so fucking hot—and Lexa just wants to be inside her again. Hungers for it. Consumed by the desire, the urgent, imperative _need_ to get this woman off. With her fingers, against her tongue, riding her thigh, using the strap (if she can find it amid the stack of boxes).

And judging by the way Clarke groans quietly, eagerly into her mouth as they resume kissing, palms going straight for Lexa’s breasts, rubbing already hardened nipples through the old graphic tee, it seems Lexa isn’t alone in wanting to pick up where they left off in the early hours.

It wasn’t like she’d planned for it to turn into an all day and night sex odyssey, but food and easy conversation segued into a heavy makeout session; wandering hands and grinding hips; a mutual, unspoken agreement to return to bed, where they fucked and talked and fucked again until they passed out sometime before dawn.

Fuelled by those memories and the resurgent heat of their kisses now, Lexa nudges Clarke’s legs apart with her knee. Swallows another groan when her thigh pushes forward to slot into the space between.

Her mouth strays, skimming across Clarke’s jaw to reach her ear. “Got anywhere to be today?”

“I have a—” Clarke’s breath hitches as Lexa squeezes the flesh cupped in her hands and she hides a devious smirk against Clarke’s cheekbone. “—production meeting. Then a costume fitting and a makeup test. And, uh, my friend Nathan is hosting a Gus Van Sant retrospective at the LGBT Center tonight. So… yeah.”

Clarke releases a small, tired sigh that breezes over the crook of Lexa’s neck.

“I should probably make tracks soon.”

Lexa stays perfectly still for a beat, lips grazing soft skin, fingers gripping the curve of Clarke’s ass.

Then she deflates a bit, the tiniest sag of her shoulders.

Breathes out, “Right. Of course.”

She flattens her expression before she drops her hands and retreats a couple of steps.

Clarke’s hands fall away too, hanging loosely by her sides.

“Sorry,” she says.

She looks genuinely regretful.

“Don’t be.” Lexa hooks her thumbs into the back pockets of her jeans. Lifts her chin. Face, a mask of casual indifference. “I’ve got some things to take care of, too.”

“Like unpacking?” Clarke asks, raising both eyebrows. 

A gentle dig.

And with it, the tension eases; changes shape, shifting into playfulness.

The corner of Lexa’s mouth twitches. “Most of it’s just stuff I had in storage before I went to Europe.”

Among other things, they’d talked about Lexa’s travels last night, as they dug into rice cakes, gamjatang, and a side order of japchae (Lexa vetoed the salad to Postmates her favourite Korean place instead). It was a happy discovery to learn that they’d been to some of the same countries. They swapped stories about Paris, Berlin, Copenhagen, and London; places Clarke visited in the hiatus between seasons of filming, fitting in sightseeing and day trips around convention appearances. While Lexa listened, she couldn’t help noticing how Clarke’s face lit up as she reminisced. And it stirred Lexa’s own wanderlust. Made her itch to return to those cities, to see them again from Clarke’s perspective, to recapture the magic and rush of being somewhere foreign and thrilling and new. _With_ somebody new.

Lexa feels a ripple of that same sense of excitement and potential for adventure now, being in Clarke’s company, being the focus of her attention. Even if Clarke is staring at her like Lexa is a complex puzzle she’s trying to solve.

“Wait—”

Clarke casts a sidelong glance at the boxes piled up in the corner of the otherwise sparsely-furnished space. They’re covered in a fine layer of dust, having gone mostly undisturbed since Lexa moved in.

“When exactly did you get back to the States?”

“Around... three months ago.”

It earns a bark of startled laughter. “Three _months_? Lexa!”

“What? I have all the essentials I need.”

Well, almost.

She’s still wondering about the strap.

“I figured it was maybe a few weeks. Or you were about to move someplace else soon. It looks like you’re ready to cut and run.”

Clarke’s eyes narrow a fraction, regarding Lexa with suspicion.

“Are you sure you’re a stylist and not some secret government agent? All that globetrotting. Using your charm and advanced flirtation skills and those deadly cheekbones to extract intel... Admit it, cutting hair is just a cover for espionage.”

“I mean, I _do_ look good in a tux.”

That gaze darkens as it meanders down Lexa’s body then rakes back up.

“I’ll bet.”

A smirk threatens, pulling at Lexa’s mouth.

“But international superspy fantasies aside? This is really only a temporary living situation. Anya’s letting me crash rent-free while I build up my client base at the salon. I want to sign a lease on my own place, eventually, but in the meantime,” she offers a small shrug, “I guess I’m used to a nomadic lifestyle.”

It’s a tough mindset to shake after years spent abroad and on the move, going wherever freelance work took her. Being on ‘home turf’ again—starting to put down roots—is a transition she’s still trying to adjust to.

Clarke nods slowly, gnawing on the corner of her bottom lip. Her eyes drift to the floor. “So… you do plan to be in LA for a while, then?”

Asked lightly, but there’s an undertone, a glimmer of vulnerability that Lexa picks up on and it tugs at her.

“I might stick around. For my career.”

Clarke looks up. Something unreadable flickers in her expression, gone a second later, save for the slight pinch that remains between her brows as she searches Lexa’s face.

It would be easy to toy with Clarke, but Lexa doesn’t have the heart for playing games.

She ducks her head to catch Clarke’s eyes.

Holds her gaze steadily.

“And to explore other opportunities that came my way recently.”

As soon as the implication lands, Clarke’s features rearrange. The frown lines disappear; her mouth curls into a tiny smirk. She fiddles with one of the buttons on the shirt, an unconsciously seductive action that makes Lexa’s thoughts turn rogue. Because she’s thinking very seriously about dropping to her knees, pushing the hem of that shirt up, and putting her mouth where she knows Clarke is wet.

“Opportunities? Such as?”

Clarke’s eyes seem to sparkle and glow. Ocean blue eddies that draw Lexa in, pulling her under.

“Well...”

She moves closer, close enough to trap Clarke between the island counter and her body. Lexa is a couple of inches taller and she presses that height advantage, noting the dilation of Clarke’s pupils, the rosy tint on her cheeks, lips parted in anticipation.

“There’s someone I just met. An actress.”

“Interesting.” Clarke lifts her arms to slide them across Lexa’s shoulders. Leans in. Soft, generous curves mould to Lexa’s front, and somehow the intimacy of it already feels comfortable; familiar. “Is she famous? Been in anything I would‘ve heard of?”

Lexa’s hands go to Clarke’s hips, roaming around and down to cup her ass again under the shirt. Like it’s their natural resting place. Their faces are less than an inch apart, mouths hovering close, sharing the same pocket of charged air.

“Mm, possibly. But I pretended not to recognise her at first. You know how actors can be.” Lexa clicks her tongue and feigns a slight grimace. “Obnoxious and entitled, all ego and bad attitude.”

She gets a flash of neat, white teeth.

“I’ve run into a few of those types in this town, yep. Most of them Scientologists.”

Lexa nods, an absent bob of her head, riveted by Clarke’s pretty half-smile as it edges wider.

She tilts in slowly, eyes half open. Nose barely brushing against Clarke’s cheek when Lexa halts, holding off at the last second before their lips make contact. And she takes immense satisfaction from the impatient little sound Clarke makes from the back of her throat, frustrated at being denied what she so clearly wants.

“She isn’t like that, though,” Lexa continues, voice pitched lower. “She’s got this… girl next door vibe. Funny. Down to earth. Sass to spare.”

Her eyes flit between Clarke’s, lidded and dark.

“Sexy as hell, but without trying too hard.”

“Oh, really?”

“Mhm.”

Lexa runs her palm over the lower swell of Clarke’s backside. One finger strays, dips between Clarke’s legs from behind, and they both shudder, foreheads knocking gently together as their mouths fall open in a silent gasp.

Because Clarke is fucking _soaked_ and Lexa, Lexa is half out of her mind with lust.

“Clarke,” she groans. “Can I—”

The rest is lost against the hard surge of Clarke’s mouth. She doesn’t hesitate to push her tongue inside at the same time that Lexa boosts her up onto the counter with a small, muffled grunt of exertion.

It’s a frenzy from there.

They claw at clothing, unashamedly eager to reach the skin beneath. Lexa sheds her tee then hurriedly plucks at the buttons on Clarke’s shirt. Soon she has it open and torn from Clarke’s shoulders, and she fills her hands with the warm, wonderful heaviness of Clarke’s perfect, perfect tits.

They kiss, deep and wet and hungry, and Lexa wouldn’t change a single thing about it. Not when Clarke’s fingers are lodged in her hair, tugging on the roots as Clarke devours her mouth, avid in the pursuit of lips and tongue, and Lexa’s lungs burn as she tries to keep up.

Her hands drop to Clarke’s knees, mostly to brace herself against this aggressive onslaught, but Clarke spreads her thighs wide without any prompting.

Lexa almost wants to pass comment, except she’s much too turned on by Clarke’s enthusiasm to be cocky about it. For now, at least. Instead, she breaks the kiss. Glances down, only to pull in a sharp breath at the sight of Clarke: flushed and swollen and so, so ready. Thin threads of arousal cling to her, glistening in the light.

It makes Lexa’s mouth run dry, makes her pulse thunder and her whole body ache, desire pounding through her veins. Because this is proof; undeniable evidence of how desperate Clarke is for more. More of _her_. Like Clarke wants it just as badly as she did the first time Lexa got between her legs.

It’s a power trip and a head rush rolled into one.

And, okay, without being conceited, Lexa has a healthy degree of self-awareness when it comes to her appearance. She knows she’s blessed with conventionally good looks and an athletic body. People tend to notice her. On top of that, she hasn’t ever had any reason to doubt her technique or ability when it comes to sex. But, all the same, this is _Clarke_ thirsting for her touch.

So Lexa is allowed to take pride in this. To let it feed her ego, just a bit.

As she slides her fingers through the slick, confidently feeling her way, she doesn’t take her eyes off of Clarke’s face. Studying every nuance of Clarke’s expression as she squirms on the countertop, hips wiggling closer.

When Lexa speaks, the words are delivered with smooth authority (and maybe just a tinge of arrogance). “I want you to think about this when you’re sitting in that meeting later.”

Her breath fans over Clarke’s lips, making dark lashes flutter.

“I want you to think about me, inside of you.”

Lexa parts Clarke wider and runs her middle finger between. Slowly swirls the tip in the pooling wetness. Living for the hard shiver it provokes, the gasp Clarke sucks in, how her hands twist in Lexa’s hair almost painfully.

“Like I’m going to think about anything else,” Clarke retorts, an audible crack in her voice. “But since I’m on a schedule, could we skip to the part where—” Lexa sinks inside. Two fingers at once. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Which is exactly what Lexa proceeds to do.

She dips in to smother Clarke’s shaky moan. Smirks into the kiss, thrilled when Clarke’s legs wrap around her hips and nails dig into her scalp. Lexa’s free hand strokes down Clarke’s spine and comes to rest at the small of her back, a gentle, steadying counterpoint to the pace of the fingers driving in deep. Before long, she adds another and Clarke speeds the insistent rocking of her hips to meet Lexa’s thrusts.

It’s fast and dirty; demanding. A little rougher than anything they did before. Clarke starts to pant into Lexa’s mouth, now and then letting out these hitched whimpers and tiny gasps when Lexa crooks her fingers, when she rubs in with the heel of her palm and Clarke grinds determinedly into the pressure.

Within minutes, Lexa feels the quickening, the clench and pull of muscles around her fingers. The rhythm of Clarke’s hips falters. Her thighs lock as a choked noise gets stuck in her throat and she mindlessly scratches at the nape of Lexa’s neck.

Clarke peaks with a ragged moan, eyes screwed shut and her head tipped back. She slaps one hand down on the countertop, scrambling for purchase, and Lexa keeps on fucking into her. Slower now. Leaning in to mouth at Clarke’s throat, tasting the salt on her skin and the faint traces of day-old perfume. Lexa kisses Clarke’s collarbone and the swell of her breast, bends to take a taut nipple into her mouth, sucking on the tip. So blissfully lost in the sensations that it takes her a second to register that Clarke is shaking through a second orgasm.

Then there are hands on Lexa’s cheeks, yanking her up into a fierce, bruising kiss. Relentless and heavy with tongue. The kind that overwhelms, and Lexa freely submits. 

When they separate, they’re both short of breath. They watch one another with dark, keen eyes, drinking in pink cheeks and shiny lips. The moment lengthens, becomes weighted, and Lexa’s heart thumps an unsteady beat. It kicks up a gear when Clarke’s thumb sweeps across her cheekbone, a softer gleam in Clarke’s gaze as it roves over Lexa’s face. Clarke draws her bottom lip between her teeth, as though there’s something she wants to say but is holding back.

“What?” Lexa asks, half smiling, but intensely curious to know.

Clarke shakes her head slightly.

“Nothing,” is all the answer Lexa gets before Clarke kisses her again.

It’s a successful ploy, because Lexa soon forgets there was even a question. So successful, in fact, that it’s some considerable time later before she pulls away with a bitten back curse, her eyes squeezed shut in consternation.

“Something wrong?” There’s a mild note of alarm in Clarke’s voice.

Lexa sighs. “The burritos.”

“_Oh_.” A pause. “Well, I don’t mind having mine reheated.”

The appalled look Lexa shoots Clarke’s way communicates her extreme distaste for that suggestion.

“Or not,” Clarke amends. Her hands drop to Lexa’s shoulders then slowly drift lower, palms fitting around her breasts. Placating. “Maybe I can help make up for this terrible breakfast tragedy in other ways.”

Lexa’s eyebrow goes up. “I’m listening.”

They meet in the middle, in a soft collision of lips. Part, tip their heads to switch sides, then press together again. Kissing slower; heavier. Just as they’re finding the tempo, a languid makeout that floods every inch of Lexa’s body with heat, Clarke withdraws a bit.

She presses warm kisses along Lexa’s jawline, bringing her mouth next to Lexa’s ear. Clarke nips at the lobe. Husks, “I’m so fucking attracted to you, it’s driving me a little crazy.”

_Hard same_, Lexa thinks.

That voice and the brush of lips against the shell of her ear. Clarke’s hands on her tits, fingers teasing her nipples to tight, oversensitive points. It’s almost more than Lexa can handle.

So Clarke’s next words are the final straw.

“Want to eat you out before I go.”

Lexa’s breath leaves her in a rush. She takes hold of Clarke’s chin by the dimple and turns her face. Kisses her hard, leaving no room for doubt that Lexa is fully on board with this idea.

“Bed?”

Clarke huffs out a short laugh. “Uh, if you lure me back to your bedroom, I’m going to miss my meeting.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “And then I’ll probably get fired.”

“Valid point,” Lexa concedes. “The couch, then.”

Which is how she finds herself shoved back against the cushions as Clarke kneels on the rug between the splay of bare legs. Hands on Lexa’s inner thighs, opening her up wider to Clarke’s dark stare. Locked in and ravenous. And, God, Lexa knows this is going to be over so fast. No point in pretending otherwise when Clarke is moistening her lips and shuffling closer.

Normally, Lexa has much better self-control than this, but she has to bite down on her knuckles to stop a truly embarrassing noise from escaping when Clarke licks up through her.

It’s just—Clarke’s _tongue_, the way her eyes drift shut as though she’s savouring the taste, how she gives this little hum of appreciation before she lowers her mouth again.

Lexa can’t keep her hips still. They twitch and jump, straining upwards to meet the glide of lips, those maddeningly slow, gentle laps of tongue that make her jaw clench tight. She girds against the urge to demand more, too proud to beg, even as sweat beads on her skin and her breathing speeds up; quick, harsh puffs pushed out through her nostrils.

Until, at last, she digs both hands into Clarke’s hair, a less than subtle directive, and Lexa _feels_ the imprint of Clarke’s smug grin.

But in the end, Clarke shows mercy.

Running firm circles around Lexa’s clit with her tongue, Clarke presses her fingers inside, and Lexa can’t stifle her low groan of approval.

Eyes falling shut as she adjusts to the feel of Clarke pumping into her.

Sliding halfway out and slamming back in.

Soundtracked by a symphony of heavy breaths and wet noises and the loud, ceaseless creak of the couch as they move together, Lexa rolls her pelvis, riding Clarke’s hand, shuddering into the scorching heat of Clarke’s mouth.

Lexa can’t tamp down on a streak of expletives, each “fuck” that tumbles out more emphatic than the last.

And then suddenly she’s arching.

Back bowing off the cushions, every muscle contracting, seizing tight as she gushes hard and soaks Clarke’s fingers.

The shockwaves seem to go on and on, a full body tremor that Lexa feels from head to toe.

Clarke pulls out, but doesn’t stop. She bends to clean up the spill, that deft, skilled tongue gathering up every drop until Lexa is gasping again. Thighs tensed. Hips in constant, restless motion as she rocks into Clarke’s open mouth. When Lexa comes a second time, hot on the heels of the first, it’s with Clarke’s tongue inside of her and a thumb on her clit, hooded blue eyes fastened on her face.

After, Clarke scatters soft, slow kisses over Lexa’s still trembling thighs, across her hip bones and stomach and the slope of her ribs. Lexa reaches for Clarke, tugs her up and onto her lap; up to waiting lips, the kiss turning greedier, deepening on a shared groan as soon as Lexa gets a taste of herself.

She wraps her arms around Clarke, pulling her nearer, loving how readily Clarke settles into it. Luxuriating in the feel of her, the incredible warmth and softness of Clarke’s skin, the crush of their bodies while their mouths continue the unhurried exploration.

Most of all, Lexa likes how easy this all feels with Clarke.

How they just _fit_ together.

Which is an intense thought to be having when they’ve known each other for less than twenty-four hours, but Lexa isn’t fazed by it.

“When can I see you again?” she asks, once the kisses recede to light, lingering pecks then taper off entirely. Both content to simply bask in the skin to skin contact for a while.

An eyebrow flexes, disappearing under messy, sweat-damp bangs. “See me or fuck me?”

Lexa studies Clarke in silence for a moment. Head cocked to one side. Dragging her fingers lazily up and down Clarke’s spine, feeling the goosebumps that pebble her skin.

“You know those two things aren’t mutually exclusive, right?” Subtly teasing, but then Lexa takes a breath and grows sombre. “Why is it so hard to believe that I want to spend time with you? Is it because of how we met? Because this isn’t a regular occurrence for me, if that’s what you’re worried about, Clarke. I’m not in the habit of sleeping with my clients.”

“I believe you. Although, with that _face_ you must have women hitting on you all the time.”

“Please. Most of my regulars are straight trophy wives.”

“I’m sure at least some of them are questioning their sexuality after noticing the length of your fingers,” Clarke drawls. “But, no, that isn’t the reason.”

She gives a small one-shouldered shrug and diverts her gaze to Lexa’s clavicles. Eyes guarded now, she traces the edge of one collarbone with a fingertip.

After a short stretch of silence, she sighs.

“The last person I dated—a reality show producer—” she punctuates this detail with a slight eye roll, “was cheating on me with his personal trainer. Funnily, she and I became friends after we both dumped him. But, I don’t know.” Another tiny shrug. “I guess the whole experience left me a little jaded about romance.”

Lexa‘s fingers come to a stop.

“Clarke.”

She waits until Clarke’s eyes are on her again. And it takes Lexa’s breath away, just for a moment, getting lost in that sea of gorgeous blue.

“Forget him. He’s obviously a dick who wouldn’t know a good thing if it punched him in the face.”

Clarke lets out a dark chuckle. “That’s what Raven—she’s the personal trainer—did. Well, technically, it was a roundhouse kick, but he ended up in the ER with a broken nose regardless.”

“Good for her,” Lexa says, impressed. “But, Clarke, his behaviour is no reflection on you.”

She touches Clarke’s jaw, slides a hand beneath her ear, fingers curling around her neck and tangling in blonde locks.

“You’re an amazing person.”

Clarke blushes at the compliment. She ducks her head and scoffs quietly. “You hardly know me.”

“I know you deserve someone who wouldn’t give another girl a second glance, because _you_ are everything they could possibly want.”

From the way Clarke is staring at her now, unblinking and stunned into silence, Lexa realises she might have said too much. Even so, she doesn’t shy away or back down.

“It’s his loss.”

In the ensuing lull, Clarke’s mouth curves up into a tentative smile. “Kind of sounds like you’re auditioning for something more serious than a casual hookup.”

Lexa hums as she resumes trailing her fingers lightly over Clarke’s skin. Back and forth, drawing random patterns.

“You’re the one who was about ready to take a trip down to City Hall over a taco. But, let’s just say, purely hypothetically, if I was…”

She pauses to lick her lips. Sees Clarke’s gaze sharpen, honing in on the brief swipe of tongue, and Lexa fights to maintain a neutral expression. Does her best not to outright preen.

“What are my chances?”

It visibly takes Clarke a second to refocus.

“Um, I’d say you’re definitely in contention. But I think I need to arrange a couple of callbacks—maybe three—just to be a hundred percent sure.”

“Three? Wow.”

“It’s a tough selection process.”

They each bite down on matching smirks, a bright gleam mirrored in their eyes as they regard one another; openly appraising.

“Plus, there’s the chemistry test,” Clarke says with exaggerated seriousness, once she gets her expression back under control.

“What does that involve?”

“Making out. Lots and lots of making out.”

“I’ll remember to stock up on chapstick, then.”

With a gentle tug on Clarke’s neck, a little squeeze of her fingers, Lexa pulls Clarke’s face down, bringing their lips together again. She tastes the shape of Clarke’s burgeoning smile as they kiss and something about that makes Lexa’s heart thud harder; faster.

It’s all too brief, but Lexa has no real cause to complain. She nudges her nose against Clarke’s as she retreats. Revels in the quiet catch of Clarke’s breath, the glazed-over look in her eyes when they flutter open again.

“Huh, so... what you’re telling me is,” Lexa says, “the casting couch is still a thing in Hollywood.”

In an instant, Clarke’s expression sours.

“Ugh, don’t even—If I had a dollar for every time my agent told me to wear a tight, low-cut shirt and full makeup to an audition for the role of ‘hero’s concerned wife or girlfriend’, I’d probably be able to afford a down payment on a house in the Hills by now. And I’m one of the lucky ones who hasn’t been blatantly propositioned for sex by a gross director or sleazy network exec, but I know plenty who have. Not just actresses, too. Women—_and_ men—from all parts of the industry.”

Lexa rubs her thumb soothingly over Clarke’s tensed jaw. “Hey, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. That was a dumb, tasteless joke.”

“No, it’s just…” Clarke sighs. Softens a bit. “In the current climate, we’re all really fucking sensitive to the tiniest hint of harassment or abuse of power. It’s a hot button issue right now.”

A grave nod. “Of course.”

Lexa eyes Clarke carefully.

“Did I just blow any shot I had there?”

Clarke returns the look. She shakes her head.

“Then you should know,” Lexa says, running her palm down Clarke’s back towards the curve of her ass. “I tend to throw myself into everything I do. Full throttle. Complete immersion.”

“Method. I like it.” Clarke stifles a laugh, relaxing against Lexa’s body once more. Her voice dips lower, huskier. “You must really want this part.”

“Could be the role of a lifetime.”

Dropping the pretence, Lexa cranes her neck up to close the gap, to claim another kiss. Clarke melts into it, licks inside, and that slow stroke of tongue sends a warm current running between Lexa’s thighs again. It turns hot and heavy on an exhale, eating up whole minutes until Clarke breaks it off with a breathless chuckle. Starry-eyed. Sucking on her bottom lip like she’s trying to hold onto Lexa’s flavour for a moment longer.

“Well,” Clarke says, and there’s a roughness to her voice that Lexa is proud to be responsible for.

A smile pulls at Clarke’s mouth.

“Have your people call my people and we’ll set up a meeting, hm?”

Off Lexa’s arched eyebrow, that smile widens into a full-wattage grin. It dazzles. Makes Lexa’s stomach flip and her chest feel tight.

“Meaning,” Clarke continues, “I’ll give you my number and you can invite me out for that date you’re apparently _dying_ to take me on.”

“Overstating it a little, but okay.”

Lexa’s hand migrates, curving around the underside of Clarke’s ass where it meets the top of her thigh. The other hand trails down Clarke’s neck, over her sternum and sliding lower; moving with purpose until Clarke intercepts, taking Lexa’s wrist captive before she goes any further.

“Lexa.” Drawn out, but Clarke’s light warning tone is undermined by the fact she’s struggling not to laugh.

“What?”

“You know.”

Undeterred, Lexa’s lips find Clarke’s throat, kissing the spot just below her ear that always makes her shiver—just one of many fascinating discoveries from last night.

“Really not helping here,” Clarke says, even as she tips her head to offer more of her neck. “I need to hustle.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

She makes a doubtful noise that vibrates through Lexa’s mouth. “What time is it anyway?”

With a reluctant sigh, Lexa pulls back. Allows Clarke to turn her wrist to get a look at the display of the smartwatch Lexa wears.

Blue eyes instantly go wide.

“Shit! I have to be in Burbank by 2.”

In a flurry of limbs, Clarke scrambles off Lexa, off the couch. Hurries to the bedroom and returns less than a minute later with an armful of her clothes, her purse and heels balanced on top.

Lexa sits up and watches Clarke get dressed in silence. After all they’ve done, all they’ve seen of each other, Lexa has a licence to stare, to admire the view. Eyes drawn to the faint mouth-shaped blotch peeking above the edge of Clarke’s bra. Tracking south to take in the plane of Clarke’s stomach. Her hips. The strip of dark blonde hair that Lexa wants to thread her fingers through.

She almost pouts when Clarke pulls the playsuit up and on. Has to rein in the powerful urge to drag Clarke back onto her lap, to reach inside that one-piece and slide into slick heat again.

“At least the traffic shouldn’t be too brutal,” Lexa murmurs, half distracted by the scenario playing out in her head.

When she finally snaps out of it, to her disappointment, Clarke is buttoned up and decent once more.

“Maybe. Ugh, but I need to run home and grab my script notes. Shower. _Eat_.”

Clarke shoves her hands through her mussed hair, hooking it carelessly behind her ears as she slips her shoes on.

Lexa takes a gamble. “Why don’t you shower here? I could rustle up some brunch while you’re in the bathroom.”

“Mm, tempting. But, no, I shouldn’t.”

“You’re missing out. My scrambled egg on toasted sourdough is legendary.”

The sad, dejected face Clarke makes—petted lip and all—is far too endearing. As is the plaintive noise she lets out a second later.

“God, I _am_ super hungry though.” She casts a brief glance over Lexa’s nude form. “I’d take a bite out of you, but there’s no meat on those bones except for that ass.”

Ears growing hot at the tips, Lexa gives a short laugh. “Alright, to save myself from your worrying cannibalistic tendencies, how about you take the burrito to go, then? Even though this sacrilegious act goes against my deeply-held principles, I’ll blast it in the microwave and wrap it up for you.”

Clarke’s happy groan is strikingly close to the sounds she made earlier and all throughout the night. Sounds Lexa isn’t going to forget anytime soon.

She’s still fixated on that when Clarke swoops down to plant a loud smooch on her cheek.

“Congrats. You just scored ten prospective girlfriend points.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The whole crew is hanging around the reception area when Lexa swans in bright and early the next morning.

She peels off her sunglasses and offers an even “Hey” as she folds the frames, tucking one leg into the open neck of her shirt.

“Well, well, well,” Anya announces, deadpan. “Look who’s graced us with her presence.”

“Doing the stride of pride,” Echo remarks.

Lexa purses her lips and waits, because she senses this is just the beginning of the mockery she’s about to endure, everyone taking turns to dunk on her.

Sure enough, the corner of Anya’s mouth ticks up. “Hope your girl left us a five-star review on Yelp.”

“Service with a smile,” Lincoln chimes in.

“Cut and colour comes with a happy finish.”

All eyes turn to Tris, wearing the dirtiest grin.

Anya pins her with a stony stare. “Nope, not happening. Not from you. This roast isn’t child-friendly. Scram, kid.”

“I’m literally nineteen.”

“Like I said: an infant.” Anya gives a dismissive jerk of her head. “Go clean the break room.”

Once Tris huffs and slopes away, it’s open season on Lexa again.

“I wonder if Clarke Griffin’s fans know she’s such a generous tipper,” Anya says, tapping her chin. “Maybe she’ll tell her celebrity pals and soon they’ll all be lining up for the ‘Lextra special’ treatment too.”

“She gives great head.” Echo lets it hang for a beat. “Of hair.”

Lincoln’s massive shoulders shake with laughter. “Is this where I make a scissoring joke?”

But it’s like Lexa is coated in Teflon; their digs slide right off.

She gives a sarcastic slow clap. “So original. Such rare wit. Truly, I’m impressed. Your collective three brain cells must’ve been working overtime.”

“It isn't too late for me to dock your pay,” Anya volleys back, an empty threat and they both know it.

With an unconcerned shrug, Lexa glides smoothly past them all to reach her station and get set up for her first appointment of the day. But she can’t contain the smug little twist of her lips now her back is turned, preoccupied by the string of texts she received just five minutes ago. Her phone is practically burning a hole in her back pocket because of them.

_I did think about you during my meeting._  
_And in the makeup chair._  
_And all through My Own Private Idaho (despite River Phoenix being a very, *very* pretty man). _  
_So… do what you want with that information._

Her reply: _You were on my mind too. Wish you could’ve stayed in my bed_.

Succinct; direct.

She hadn't felt the need to downplay her interest or pretend Clarke wasn’t in her thoughts. How Clarke looked in the soft, peachy light that filtered through the bedroom drapes, the sun on her skin as she slept. The hazy desire in her eyes as she pushed off from Lexa’s body as they kissed goodbye against the doorframe. The hesitance. Like Clarke didn’t want to leave yet. The final kiss she dusted against Lexa’s jaw before she went. Her perfume lingered long after she was gone and Lexa kept catching scent of it in the air as she moved through the apartment.

And then there were the other memories she couldn’t shake.

The sustained, heavy eye contact while they rocked into each other. That blistering _look_ Clarke gave before she went down on Lexa for the first time. The proud grin on Clarke’s face as she quickly kissed her way up Lexa’s body afterwards, dragging her tongue up the column of Lexa’s throat, over her chin, and sweeping into her mouth.

Yeah… Lexa was super fucking distracted while she took care of business yesterday, doing tedious life admin and running small errands. To the extent that she almost reversed her car into a parked vehicle because a sudden image popped into her head, an image that’s been seared in her brain ever since:

Clarke on top.

Tits bouncing as she greedily took three fingers.

How her eyes slammed shut and her mouth fell open and she let out a raw, gasping cry at the ceiling when she shook apart.

Even replaying the scene in her head now, Lexa feels her temperature rising. So it takes her far longer than it should to tune into the fact that Anya is repeatedly calling her name.

At last Anya snaps, “Yo Lexa! Your 9.30 is here.”

Lexa blinks hard.

Frowns.

But—the salon doesn’t open before 10am.

She turns her head to throw a glare in Anya’s direction, only to freeze when her eyes land on another figure beside the reception podium.

A tiny jolt of surprise zips down Lexa’s spine.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Anya says pointedly, in a tone that implies Lexa has only been given a temporary reprieve. “Linc, Echo? With me.”

Once they’re alone together, a lazy smile eases across Clarke’s lips and a whole swarm of butterflies erupts in Lexa’s stomach at the sight. She feels like a baby gay with her first reciprocated crush all over again. It’s ridiculous.

“Hi,” Clarke says and the warm huskiness of her voice is enough to propel Lexa forward.

She approaches slowly, allowing herself the opportunity to drink in the full glory of Clarke in denim cut-offs and a loose black tank top. Legs and cleavage and collarbones and Clarke’s gorgeous face all vying for Lexa’s attention. She hardly knows where to let her gaze rest, because it’s all too much. And the happy glow in Clarke's eyes tells Lexa that her reaction hasn’t gone unnoticed or unappreciated.

Not that the admiration is one-sided.

Clarke bites her lip as she takes in Lexa’s appearance too, scanning her from head to toe and back again.

“Back already?” Lexa asks with a raised eyebrow, once she comes to a stop just a couple of paces away.

Clarke scrunches her locks. “I needed a touch-up.”

It’s suggestive enough that Lexa can’t fight the formation of a half-grin as she leads Clarke to her station and invites her to sit with a small sweep of her arm.

“So… are you here for my professional services or did you just come by to flirt with me?”

“Can’t it be both?” Clarke says, flashing that smile again and Lexa is no less weak for it. “Actually, the truth is: after I got done with the costume fitting yesterday, the makeup and hair designer spent about five solid minutes scrutinising me from every possible angle then decided he wanted something different for my character’s hairstyle. More Debbie’s sleek glam than Stevie’s witchy waves—his words.”

“Mm.” Lexa picks up a section of hair and pulls it taut, making a silent assessment of the task ahead. “I’d have to chop it a lot shorter to get it all the same length.”

“That’s fine.”

She runs her fingers through Clarke’s hair, combing through from root to tip. Lips quirking when she hears Clarke’s soft sigh, when she glances up and observes in the mirror that Clarke’s eyelids have slid to half mast.

“He didn’t offer to do the honours himself?”

“Oh, he did. But I told him I only trust one person with my hair.”

Lexa pauses. She meets Clarke’s gaze in the reflection.

“Flexing your clout and star power, huh?”

Clarke mimes taking a long drag on an imaginary cigarette holder and exhales with a dramatic flourish. “My one diva demand.”

Lexa’s smirk grows and she resumes sifting through Clarke’s hair. After a few moments she starts to massage the scalp gently instead, light presses of her thumbs and fingertips without any real conscious intent. She simply enjoys the effect it has on Clarke, the mellow hum of approval she emits as she sinks a little lower into the chair, shoulders loose and relaxed.

“That’s _really_ nice,” Clarke murmurs. “Seriously, if I could afford it, I’d hire you to do this every day.”

“If you play your cards right, you won’t have to.”

Their eyes lock again.

“Prospective girlfriend perks,” Lexa elaborates.

They share a significant look.

Clarke lashes flicker. She wets her lips. “Noted for future reference.”

That wild flutter below Lexa’s diaphragm returns, but she continues working her fingers against Clarke’s scalp. Outwardly cool and composed.

A minute or two passes, blue eyes stuck on Lexa the whole time, watching her every move in reverse.

Then, “How do you feel about dancing?”

Lexa withdraws and leans her elbows on the back of the chair. She hedges, “Depends on the music. Why?”

“It’s just, one of my old cast mates from The Ark is in a band and she’s got a show at the Palladium tomorrow night. As the support act.” Clarke drops her gaze and toys with a loose thread on the frayed edge of her cut-offs. “I thought it could be fun to go together. If you’re free, obviously. I know it’s short notice, and you probably have other plans, so—”

“Clarke. I’d like to go.”

She looks up, finding Lexa’s eyes again in the reflection.

“You‘re sure?”

“Yes.”

Clarke’s smile keeps Lexa spellbound, until a question occurs to her.

“Out of interest, who’s the headline act?”

“Oh, um… Chvrches. Do you know them?”

“Do I—” Lexa gapes. She stares at Clarke; incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me? Why didn’t you lead with that? That show sold out within minutes of the tickets going on sale.”

A bemused chuckle. “I gather you’re a fan, then?”

“You have no idea. Their frontwoman, Lauren Mayberry, is going to be my future wife.”

“Yeah? You think she’s cute? Well, that’s alright.” Clarke’s expression shifts. Her smile turns flirtatious. “I don’t mind a little rivalry.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I could get used to this,” Lexa comments as they pass the general admission line that’s already wrapped around the block to join the much shorter one for the VIP side entrance.

There’s a buzz in the air, a palpable sense of anticipation and irrepressible excitement, despite the sticky humidity. Even though the sun hangs low in the sky, it’s still in the high 80s and heat shimmers off the sidewalk. Those at the front of the line have probably been waiting hours for the doors to open, just to guarantee a coveted spot near the stage, but it’s done nothing to dampen their spirits, pockets of laughter and chatter rising about the rumble of traffic crawling along Sunset Boulevard.

Clarke rocks on her heels and drawls, “Yeah, the freebies aren’t exactly a hardship.”

Her eyes are hidden behind classic wayfarer shades, but Lexa can easily imagine the wry twinkle in them.

“Ever get sent any swag by big brands?”

“Nah. Although, when I was just starting out and doing commercials? Now and then I got paid in part with the products I was shilling.” Clarke laughs to herself. “One time, I got sent an entire month’s supply of Activia. I swear, me and my roommate were sick of having probiotic yoghurt with every damn meal after about a week.”

Lexa’s mouth twitches. “Bet you’d never been so regular, though.”

“Seriously.”

The line shuffles forward a bit and they follow the herd, Lexa’s shoulder bumping gently against Clarke’s as they move.

“In the end, we had to start giving it away to, like, random passersby in the street before the stuff expired.” Another chortle. “Octavia and I nearly got ourselves arrested by the cops because they thought we were peddling stolen goods from the trunk of her car.”

“Jesus,” Lexa mutters, shaking her head in amused disbelief.

They lapse into comfortable silence, but Lexa keeps looking over at Clarke, eyes drawn like magnets. Because, while she isn’t inclined to brag (too much) about her creations, that new cut on Clarke ranks up there with some of her best work. Bangs swept to one side; smooth, sharp lob accentuating the angles of her face, Clarke looks like the ultimate new wave pin-up. Paired with the killer combo of a little black dress and vintage motorcycle boots, the bold red lipstick and small gold hoop earrings are the perfect finishing touches to complete the ensemble.

Suffice to say, Lexa wasn’t at all prepared when Clarke pulled up to the curb looking like _that_, exuding charisma and attitude from every pore.

It felt like a sucker punch.

Lexa almost swallowed her own tongue.

She covered it well, of course, but for a hot second she considered suggesting that they ditch the show altogether.

Even now, she’s semi entertaining ideas about tugging Clarke back to the parking lot and getting her hands under that dress in the backseat of Clarke’s hybrid.

But, _no_.

She’s capable of exercising a little restraint—at least for a couple of hours. After the show? Well, that’s a different story.

As the line draws another step closer to the entrance, Lexa’s knuckles brush over Clarke’s, and it seems only natural to take her hand. They share a glance. A faint smile plays around Clarke’s mouth, but she says nothing as their fingers slide together and interlock, and a warm feeling spreads through Lexa’s chest.

She clears her throat.

“Do you still share a place with her? Octavia?” she asks, picking up the earlier thread of conversation.

“Mhm, I do. But she won’t be around tonight, if that’s what you're really asking.”

A quiet laugh. “It was an innocent question, Clarke.”

The doors are in sight now, along with the venue’s brawny security staff who are busily searching bags, patting people down, and beckoning them through the metal detectors with brisk, no-nonsense efficiency.

“Although... if you _are _going to invite me home, it’s good to know we’ll have the place to ourselves.” Lexa stares straight ahead. “I’d hate for us to be interrupted.”

She feels Clarke’s eyes on her profile and Lexa presses her lips together to contain her smirk.

Several seconds tick by before Lexa looks at Clarke again. She cocks an eyebrow. “Or is that too forward for a first date?”

Clarke pushes her sunglasses up her forehead and gives Lexa a slow, speculative once-over. So much heat in that stare, it prickles the skin on Lexa’s exposed arms.

“I mean, I’ve already been in your bedroom.” Clarke’s voice drops to a lower register. “It’s only fair to let you see mine.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It turns out the support act isn’t half bad. A little too close to ‘80s pastiche for Lexa’s tastes, but their breakneck-speed cover version of Maniac whips the crowd into a frenzy. And she can’t help but smile when Clarke whoops and cheers extra loud for her friend during the brief lull between songs, earning a grin and a wave from the woman behind banks of keyboards.

By the time the band finishes their set, everyone is primed and ready to raise the roof. The main attraction takes to the stage in a dazzling, kaleidoscopic display of laser lights, and the instantly recognisable opening riff of _Bury It_ draws a near-deafening roar of appreciation that fills the venue to its rafters.

It’s electrifying; exhilarating.

The energy, contagious.

It bubbles up inside Lexa as the pulverising bassline rattles through her bones and makes her teeth vibrate. From their spot on the balcony, she and Clarke have a prime view of the dance floor, a pogoing mass of raised arms and joyous faces. Arms windmilling, Lauren Mayberry whirls across the stage like a tiny Scottish dervish, diminutive in stature yet fully in command of the space, that pure crystalline voice never once faltering as she does valiant battle with the towering wall of synths. When the song reaches its soaring chorus, a rallying call of “you bury it, bury it, bury it and rise above”, it turns into a riotous shoutalong that lifts the hairs on the back of Lexa’s neck.

When she hears Clarke join in, belting the words at the top of her lungs, Lexa glances over and can’t hold back the grin that splits her cheeks.

Clarke is in her element, head thrown back, bouncing on the spot without a care, and Lexa feels a wobble in her chest that’s entirely unrelated to the bass pounding up through the floor.

Spotlights swing out over the crowd, strafing across her vision in time with the heavy stab of synths. Her eyes catch hold of Clarke’s, and in that split-second of connection something shifts in the air between them; inside Lexa.

Because she’s just—smitten.

Completely enamoured and enthralled.

And she wants more.

_More_ of Clarke.

To know her mind as intimately as her body; to learn every facet of her personality and memorise every inch of her skin. Lexa wants to be the one Clarke vents to at the end of a long day; she wants to soothe Clarke’s worries, celebrate her successes; bring only laughter and happiness into her life, and—

Some aspect of Lexa’s expression must betray her thoughts, because she sees a spark of recognition on Clarke’s face. Between flashes of blue strobe light, Clarke cycles rapidly through several stages of emotion: surprise, elation, resolve.

Wordlessly, she reaches out to grip Lexa by the front of her t-shirt. Reeling her in with those eyes as much as by gentle force. A slight tug on the fabric bunched in Clarke’s fist brings Lexa that last step closer.

Heart hammering, Lexa draws in a quick, shallow breath before Clarke pushes up on her toes, pushes into a slow, searching kiss. Her other arm winds around Lexa’s shoulders, pulling her firmly against Clarke’s body as the kiss intensifies.

There’s barely any part of them that isn’t already touching, but even that full body contact isn’t enough for Lexa. She clutches Clarke’s waist, slides her arms around to hold her closer, tighter, and Clarke sighs into her mouth.

In that moment, the music, the crowd, everything else just falls away. The world narrows to Clarke’s fingers on the side of Lexa’s neck, lips moving over her own with soft hunger.

Chvrches have already launched into the next song—the barnstorming _Keep You On My Side_—when Clarke finally retreats an inch. Pupils huge and glittering, eyes glued to Lexa’s mouth. With a smile, Clarke rubs her thumb under Lexa’s bottom lip, erasing the transfer of lipstick. She lets that hand fall to Lexa’s chest. Must feel Lexa’s heart racing beneath her palm, because Clarke’s smile grows wider and brighter by the second, its radiance giving the lighting production a run for its money.

Then she leans up, shouts into Lexa’s ear to be heard over the swirling chord progressions. “Should I still be worried about the competition?”

Clarke inclines her head towards the stage, where Lauren Mayberry is spinning in circles once again, the diaphanous yellow chiffon dress she wears flaring out around her.

Lexa runs her gaze over Clarke’s face, mesmerised by the shifting lights on her skin.

Shakes her head: no.

She places her mouth beside Clarke’s ear and tells her, “There’s no contest.”


	3. Chapter 3

Since the signs actively encourage it, Clarke lets her shoes slide off, wiggling her bare toes against the blades of warm grass. From her spot on the meadow, she half watches a couple of midday joggers—a man and a woman, both bronzed and buff and movie star-gorgeous—as they run along the footpath that skirts the eastern side of the reservoir. It’s one extremely superficial thing about Los Angeles that she never gets tired of: über fit, ultra beautiful people in ass-hugging shorts making the most of the perfect weather in the city’s parks and open spaces.

Today, though, ogling hot strangers while she soaks up the rays doesn’t hold its usual shallow appeal; she’s too preoccupied with the call she’s anxiously been waiting all morning for.

After a string of fourteen-hour days spent on a soundstage in a replica of a seedy Lower East Side basement dive bar, she’s more than ready to let the sunshine bleach away the stress and fatigue of what turned out to be a gruelling shoot, but she can’t shake the nagging worry that she hasn’t heard from her reps yet. They promised they’d be in touch as soon as they had any news, but it’s difficult to relax when her fate is about to be determined by the subjective opinions of a bunch of suits in a screening room.

As a veteran of pilot season, she should be used to this ordeal by now. The waiting. Trying to remain optimistic while preparing for the worst. All the same, it doesn’t get any easier with experience, especially when it’s a role and a project that she’s fallen in love with, poured so much passion and energy into, when she’s _inhabited_ that character like no other. Sure, she’s weathered plenty of professional disappointments and setbacks in her career. But this one? This one would sting the most, because it feels as though she’s on the cusp of a breakthrough and it could very easily be snatched away from her in the span of a single impersonal phone call.

It fucking sucks.

But, hey, on the upside of potentially imminent unemployment (being “between roles”, as her Mom likes to spin it to friends and relatives—ever concerned with optics), this is the first time in weeks that she hasn’t had to think about memorising lines or rehearsing musical numbers or waking up obscenely early for a 6am call time on set. It was actually _bliss_ to rise with the sun instead of the shrill beep of an alarm, and the only thing that could have made it better was if she’d had company.

Because nothing beats rolling over to find Lexa still sound asleep, hair tumbling down the slope of her naked back in gloriously sex-mussed waves, shards of soft golden light spilling through the gaps in the drapes and painting broad stripes across her skin. Dark lashes flickering as she dreams. One hand tucked under the pillow, and Clarke can never resist trailing her fingertips lightly along Lexa’s tattoo, following the tapestry of ink that spans from wrist to shoulder. Mapping out familiar lines until Lexa stirs at last and shifts fully onto her side. Waiting for the moment her eyes flutter open and Clarke falls into so much _green_; when Lexa’s lips ease into an unspoken “good morning” smile that makes Clarke’s heart pang, heat stirring low in her abdomen as her gaze wanders, taking it all in.

Those sun-drenched sleepovers that linger late into the afternoon are special.

_Lexa_ is special.

Clarke has had her share of hot flings and intense infatuations, but this is more. Real. It has substance and staying power—and she’s not talking about Lexa’s performance in the bedroom. (Although, _oof_; the sex is doing a far better job of keeping Clarke in shape than any keto diet or workout regimen ever could, thank you.)

A month into it and she still feels this ever-present swirl of butterflies and the good kind of nerves whenever Lexa enters her thoughts.

Like now, as her phone vibrates and Lexa’s name pops up on the screen: _nearly there_.

Clarke soon spies her on the path, eating up the distance with a typically brisk, purposeful stride, a large paper bag cradled in one arm. Looking every inch the lesbian heartthrob in checkered Vans and cuffed jeans ripped at the knees, plain olive tee tucked beneath the waistband. Hair down and shades on and that pout in place. Clarke’s stomach swoops at the sight, a warm current of desire running between her legs, but she strives to appear calm and unaffected on the surface. Feigns sudden fascination in her Insta feed instead, scrolling to the post by ‘hairbylexa’ that nearly caused her to choke on her juice when she first glimpsed it over breakfast.

It’s a snap of herself from weeks ago, from the night of the Chvrches show. Still buzzing and floating on a residual high as they walked back to the car—in part due to the concert, but mostly because they’d had their hands and lips on each other for large sections of it—she’d caught Lexa staring once or twice, this soft, wondrous look on her face. Clarke had joked: “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

So Lexa did.

Only she didn’t stop at one photo, and Clarke went from striking a relatively tame pose in front of a wall to slouching against her car in a much more provocative fashion: palms planted flat on the hood, shoulders back and tits thrust forward, biting down on a smile as she arched an eyebrow at Lexa in silent challenge.

Clarke remembers with complete clarity that second or two of deliberation as Lexa’s eyes raked up and down. The subtle clench and unclench of Lexa’s jaw; the flare of her nostrils. How she fumbled just a little in her haste to pocket her phone before she pulled Clarke into a kiss that left no doubt about the onward trajectory of the night. Somehow, Clarke found herself caught between Lexa’s body and the driver's side door, chest to chest and hip to hip, greedily chasing the heat and pressure of Lexa’s mouth. And it had taken all of Clarke’s restraint not to just grab Lexa’s hand and shove it under her dress right there in the emptying parking lot.

Given those circumstances, it’s hardly surprising that the impromptu photoshoot slipped Clarke’s mind; Lexa scrambles her thoughts and senses at the best of times, even when her leg _isn’t_ wedged between Clarke’s thighs in public.

So it came as a shock, then, to see herself captured in moody black and white, giving a look straight to camera that just oozes sex. Full smoulder. Maximum thirst on display, and the comments beneath only draw more attention to it; flame and fire truck emojis and “damn, somebody get her some water.”

But it’s the tags that she’s most fixated upon.

“Woman crush Wednesday, huh?” she remarks once Lexa is within earshot.

Lexa smiles a little bit as she gracefully drops beside Clarke on the grass and places the paper bag down between them.

“Just stating facts.” She peers over the top of her sunglasses, locking eyes for a steady stretch. “Although, every day crush is more accurate.”

_God_, that’s smooth.

So fucking smooth that Clarke dies a little, torn between wanting to curl up like a nocturnal creature suddenly exposed to daylight and the impulse to launch her lips at Lexa. When they’re together, it’s a constant battle within herself not to just pounce and Clarke is sure Lexa knows, otherwise she wouldn’t _say_ and _do_ these things that cause minor episodes of tachycardia and this overwhelming urge to kiss that barely-there smile off Lexa’s unfairly attractive face. Really, no one person should be allowed to wield this much power, not when Clarke is so susceptible to pretty girls with an aura of easy confidence.

The corner of Lexa’s mouth ticks up further, clearly pleased with herself and her casual ability to turn Clarke into mush.

Retaliation is the only option, Clarke decides, once she recovers; putting a pin in that ego to protect the fragile remains of her own.

“Uh-huh. Alright, slick.” She clears her throat. “Actually, I’m kind of mad about it.”

Lexa’s smile fades by degrees.

She eases off her sunglasses.

“You are?”

Her eyebrows do a whole complex gymnastic routine in the space of a second before finally pinching together in deep consternation.

“I’m sorry. I should've asked—”

Clarke cuts across the apology. “It’s not that.”

She holds up her phone and gestures at the incriminating image open in the app.

“You couldn’t have chosen something less...” She grasps for an adjective that fully encapsulates the palpable sexual intensity emanating from the screen. “Horny? I mean, I look like I want to rip your clothes off.”

Lexa’s gaze shifts towards the phone then back to Clarke, studying her for a beat. But then the tension leaves Lexa’s shoulders and her frown clears.

“That’s just how you look at me, Clarke.”

Nonchalant, but there’s a hint of deadpan humour in her tone, a faint curl returning to her lips that draws Clarke’s attention. True to form, she struggles to peel her eyes away, which only lends credence to Lexa’s previous statement.

“Yeah, well, have you seen you?” Clarke grumbles.

That proud little smirk only widens while Lexa unpacks several items from the paper bag, including two tall cups from Dinosaur Coffee. The rich aroma of their signature Four Barrel roast wafts on the slight breeze and Clarke’s faux sulk soon melts away as she breathes it in.

“If it’s any consolation, I got one of those cranberry and blood orange muffins that you like. I know,” Lexa gives the barest of eye rolls, “today isn’t a cheat day, but—”

“Lex.”

She pauses; looks up with a curious tilt of her head, and a sudden wave of affection washes over Clarke. Touched, because it’s one of those moments that she’s quickly come to cherish, when Lexa’s understated cool gives way to genuine sweetness. Clarke can’t help it; she has to tug Lexa closer by the neck and into a slow, soft kiss. Elated by how readily she sinks into it, lips parting on a hitched breath as Clarke pushes forward, like Lexa has been counting down the days, hours, and minutes to this too.

While they kept in frequent contact during filming, texting back and forth at every opportunity, it wasn’t nearly enough. FaceTime calls from Clarke’s dressing room during breaks are no substitute for Lexa’s mouth moving against hers with a gentle kind of urgency now. Flirting via text pales in comparison to the fingers currently threading through her hair, nails scratching lightly at her nape. Clarke doesn’t know if it’s a stylist thing or a Lexa-specific thing, but they haven’t had a date so far that didn’t somehow involve Lexa’s hands getting tangled up in Clarke’s shorter locks sooner or later. It makes her shivery and restless, warm tingles running up and down her arms, turns the knot of tension in her gut into something much more pleasant.

She’s driven to a hushed confession. “Don’t let this go to your head, but I missed you.”

Lexa’s soft huff of laughter, exhaled through her nostrils, the hummed “me too” makes Clarke’s insides melt, a fast flutter dancing below her ribs as Lexa nudges in to claim another kiss.

“Yeah?” Clarke pulls back, thrilled when Lexa pursues her mouth for half a second afterwards. “How much?”

“Enough to binge two seasons of The Ark on Netflix and become invested in the plot. Now I need to know if the crew makes it through that interdimensional wormhole alive.”

Clarke fails to hold a snort in check. Her fingers sweep along Lexa’s jawline, following the sharp angle towards the round of her chin and back up to caress the outer shell of an impossibly tiny ear.

“Well, it just so happens that someone around here has the inside scoop.”

“Mm. No spoilers.”

Clarke rears back an inch. “Are you telling me you’re _genuinely_ into it?”

She’ll never be ungrateful for a steady job that paid the bills and set her on her current path, but even she can admit among trusted confidants that the show is derivative trash. How it’s stayed on the air for four seasons when the ratings are in the toilet is beyond her, except for the fact it performs weirdly well on streaming platforms overseas.

“I’m into a certain blonde astrophysicist who looks really fucking hot in uniform.” There’s a glint in Lexa’s eyes; a sly curve to the slope of her mouth. She wiggles her brows. “Did they let you keep it?”

“Oh, stop,” Clarke scoffs, even as her face heats up and her thoughts turn briefly to the costume stashed at the back of her closet. “Here’s me thinking it was the emotional range of my performance that resonated with you, but in reality you just wanna get into my jumpsuit.”

”It’s possible to appreciate your craft while also appreciating your ass.”

Clarke purses her lips. “I was nominated for a Saturn Award, you know.”

“Prestigious.”

“It is! Considering my lines were ninety-percent technobabble, I sold that shit like it was Shakespeare.”

Lexa smiles. “Talented _and_ sexy. What did I do in a past life to deserve you?”

The teasing undertone, the unguarded tenderness in Lexa’s gaze really doesn’t help Clarke’s impulse control problem.

She cups Lexa by the chin. Murmurs, “something obnoxiously heroic, I’m sure” before their lips reconnect. Languid and sweet, that brief taste leaves Clarke craving more once they separate.

In the kiss-drunk lull, she runs her gaze over Lexa’s face. Drawn inexorably to lush, soft lips and those eyes and the very faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of Lexa’s nose. Not for the first time, Clarke silently thanks the universe for women. Just—women in general, but also this one woman in particular.

“Heroic, huh?” Lexa lifts her chin a fraction. Flexes an eyebrow, radiating that too-cool insouciance that makes Clarke want to lunge at her, tongue-first.

“Mhm.” Clarke ponders for a bit. “I could picture you as, like, an ancient warrior. Maybe a gladiator in an arena. Strutting around with swords and wearing warpaint. Showing off for the crowd after your victory.”

“Showing off for a _girl_ in the crowd.”

“I see.” Clarke curbs a smile. “And who is this mystery woman?”

Lexa doesn’t miss a beat. “A senator’s daughter. Ambitious and powerful in her own right. Also,” she pauses, eyes darkening as she wets her bottom lip, “she fills out a toga very nicely.”

“Starting to think you have a thing for dressing up in the bedroom.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s just you.”

They share a look, one weighted with enough layers of meaning that Clarke’s heart starts to pound like she’s run a few circuits around the reservoir herself today. And the small smile tucked into the corner of Lexa’s mouth only makes her pulse race faster.

“If you continue like this we’re going to get slapped with a public indecency charge,” Clarke says.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You exist.”

It sparks a laugh, Lexa tilting closer, the space between them vanishing until Clarke has the vague presence of mind to take a breath before they’re kissing again. Eyes half open, watching one another beneath their lashes like neither wants to miss a single second.

Clarke sighs into it. “Not to sound too clingy and codependent, but eight days without touching you was killing me.”

Lexa retreats only to change the angle, hot breath spilling over Clarke’s chin as she murmurs, “So let’s not do that again.”

Clarke just nods her wholehearted agreement, catching Lexa’s lower lip between her teeth and teasing over the plump swell of it with her tongue, relishing the soft noise of approval Lexa makes from the back of her throat in response. That _sound_ fans the flames of arousal, heat pooling low and heavy, and Clarke groans, half in frustration, because if she doesn’t hit the brakes soon then she really might do something to get them arrested and her mugshot splashed across the internet.

With a gentle squeeze of Lexa’s shoulder, Clarke reluctantly pulls away. Then she sees Lexa’s expression, the hunger in it, and her resolve almost crumbles. Lexa’s pupils are blown, eyes hooded and hazy and glued to Clarke’s mouth, cheeks flushed and ears tipped pink, and Clarke’s _want_ hits her so hard it nearly knocks the breath out of her. Because it’s that same lust struck look Lexa gets when Clarke’s bra comes off, when her thighs are pushed apart and—

Clarke has to stop that thought dead in its tracks.

“You,” she pokes Lexa’s ribs, “are going to get me into so much trouble, I swear.”

“Me?” Lexa protests, half-laughing. “You’re the instigator here. I was innocently discussing your muffin…” Another hard prod. “Ow.”

Clarke mock-glares but she can’t keep up the pretense, not when that pout is back on Lexa’s face.

“You’re lucky I like you so much.”

Lexa brightens, a small grin forming. ”I am pretty irresistible.”

“Pretty conceited, maybe,” Clarke says, unable to contain a burgeoning smile of her own. She reaches for the front of Lexa’s shirt, taking a fistful of the fabric, and tugs. “Just—come here.”

Clarke is halfway to Lexa’s lips when she registers the buzz of her phone, vibrating incessantly beside her hip. Taking secret pleasure in Lexa’s despondent sigh as she veers away, Clarke grabs her phone from where she discarded it on the grass and peers at the screen.

Her heart leaps in her chest when she sees the caller.

“Shit, sorry, I have to take this.” She steels herself and answers the call with forced cheer. “Roan, hi.”

Off the quizzical look Lexa shoots her, Clarke mouths: _my agent_.

Lexa’s eyebrows go up.

“Clarke,” Roan drawls, and she can imagine him reclining in his chair, Italian leather loafer-clad feet kicked up on the desk, hair slicked back and a day’s growth of designer stubble on his smarmy face. The quintessential Hollywood douche. “Look, I’m about to dive into another meeting so I’ll make this quick, but I just got off a conference call with the EPs.”

“And?”

“And...” He clicks his tongue. “It’s not good news.”

Her heart plummets.

“It’s _great_ news! The studio loved the rough cut so much they put in a two season order on the spot.”

She gapes. “They did?!”

A wave of jumbled emotions crashes over her. Overwhelming relief, mixed with elation and gratitude and a touch of fear. It leaves her light-headed, her hands shaking. But then her mind catches up with Roan’s little prank and she grows annoyed. “You’re such a dick.”

Roan chuckles. “A dick who negotiated you a healthy six figure fee per episode.”

Her hand flies to her mouth.

That’s more than she earned in her entire run on The Ark, including residuals.

“Now you’re making bank, you owe me dinner at Nobu sometime,” he says wryly. “Anyway, they’re sending over the paperwork this afternoon so I’ll email you once it comes in.” After a short pause, he musters what passes for genuine sincerity for him, “Congrats, kid. You deserve it.”

She snaps herself out of her stupor long enough to thank him. Once the call ends she finds Lexa’s eyes, Lexa watching her with hopeful expectancy.

Clarke drops her phone into her lap.

“HBO picked up the pilot,” she breathes out, unable to fully wrap her brain around this. “For _two_ fucking seasons.”

“Are you serious? That’s amazing!”

“This is huge, Lex. Oh my god.”

She presses her still trembling palms to her cheeks as a disbelieving laugh bubbles up her throat.

Lexa beams at her. “We should celebrate.”

Even in her half-stunned state, Clarke’s mind immediately goes to the gutter. But, honestly, she can’t imagine a better way to mark this momentous day than spending the rest of it under Lexa.

There must be some hint of those dirty thoughts in Clarke’s expression because Lexa looks immensely smug all of a sudden.

“I meant tonight, Clarke. A date. Dinner and drinks.”

The answering pout makes Lexa laugh, and Clarke lives for that sound, the way Lexa’s eyes crease in her amusement.

Enamoured by all of it, Clarke leans closer and drops her voice to a suggestive whisper. “Sure I can’t persuade you to play hooky with me?”

“You definitely can, but then I’d be out of a job.”

The magnetic draw is palpable, the air between them growing charged again as their gazes flit from eyes to lips.

“Believe me,” Lexa lifts her fingers to sweep through Clarke’s bangs, “I’d love to ditch work so I could take you home and go down on you for hours.”

Warmth floods Clarke’s body at the prospect.

“It’s just...” Lexa gives a slight grimace. “I’m still on Anya’s shit list, and—”

“Lexa, it’s okay.”

Clarke touches Lexa’s kneecap, rubbing the tan skin that peeks through the hole in the jeans, drawing slow circles with her thumb.

“I mean, I would _really_ love that too, but I can wait.”

They exchange a knowing look, twin smirks playing around the corners of their mouths.

“So,” Clarke says, doing her best to ignore the dull ache of arousal that makes her shift uncomfortably from one numb butt cheek to the other on the grass. “Where are you whisking me off to on our date?”

“Someplace I can show you off and make everyone jealous.”

Glowing under the compliment, Clarke ducks her head. Bites her lip to stop the idiotic grin that threatens to overtake her face.

Their eyes catch and Clarke’s heart thuds wildly in the lull.

She thinks it isn’t Lexa that people should be jealous of.

“But, in the meantime...” Lexa reaches for the paper bag containing the rest of their neglected lunch. “You have to try this red lentil dal. There’s a great new Indian pop up that opened last week and, I’m not kidding, Linc and I have had everything on the menu at least twice.”

While Lexa continues to rave about curry, Clarke tunes out a bit, letting Lexa’s enthusiasm wash over her, content to just listen to her speak.

  


* * *

  


“What’s gotten into you?” Octavia’s bemused voice drifts across the room. “You’re more jittery than a virgin on prom night.”

Clarke throws a withering look over her shoulder at her roommate then resumes primping in front of the floor-length mirror.

Admittedly, she _had_ changed her outfit six times before returning to her initial choice: a daringly low-cut Marc Jacobs number with matching strappy heels that she wore to a TV Guide Oscars viewing party two years ago. But she just wants to wow Lexa. Show her a little of what she’s been missing in the nights they’ve been apart. Where’s the crime in that? And, okay, maybe she _is_ attempting to work off some excess nervous energy by redirecting it into her appearance.

“I could do without the commentary from the peanut gallery, thanks.”

Even with her back turned, Clarke senses Octavia’s eye roll from several feet away, like a subtle disturbance in the air.

“Anyway, I never went to prom.” She adjusts the hemline of her dress. “I was a theatre kid, debate captain, _and_ a chess champion. You think I had time for dating?”

“That’s tragic. And yet it explains so much.”

Clarke whirls around, hands on her hips. “Hey!”

Unperturbed, Octavia only flips to the next page of her magazine.

“I didn’t say I wasn’t asked,” Clarke argues, compelled to defend her teenage self. “For your information, I actually fielded several promising offers and only one of them was from a distant relative.”

Octavia says nothing, but the silence is judgemental enough.

Clarke sighs noisily.

“If you’re done being a brat, how do I look?”

She does a twirl.

Octavia lets out a low, appreciative whistle and, despite herself, Clarke flushes.

“Shame I’m not into clam diving, otherwise I’d be all over you like a rash.”

“Gross, O.”

Clarke turns back to study her reflection for a moment. Proud, because her eyeliner is on _point_.

“When do I get to meet this mysterious and elusive Lexa anyway?”

“Soon, I promise.”

She presses her lips together then practices a wide smile to check there are no rogue lipstick stains on her teeth.

“I just don’t want you telling her every embarrassing thing about me. She still thinks I’m marginally cool and I’d like her to hold on to that illusion for a little while longer.”

Octavia feigns a very theatrical gasp. “I am shocked—_shocked_—that you have such a low opinion of me. Dude, we’ve been best buds for how long, and you really think I’d break the sacred bonds of our friendship just for some cheap digs at your expense?”

“Yes.”

After a lengthy pause, she concedes with a one-shouldered shrug. “Eh, you’re right. So, anyway, where—”

Before Octavia can continue her line of questioning, Clarke’s phone starts to vibrate and rattle where it’s balanced precariously on the edge of the vanity. She snatches it up, biting her lip to fend off an automatic smile when she sees Lexa’s picture on the lock screen. All pout and cheekbones and a jawline so sharp it could be classified as a deadly weapon. It’s almost annoying that Lexa doesn’t have any unflattering angles—and Clarke would know because she spent a _lot_ of her downtime on set going through her camera roll and sighing at regular intervals over Lexa’s ridiculously photogenic face.

Getting a hold of herself, Clarke taps to answer.

“Hi,” she says, a little breathless, and not even Octavia’s obnoxious, loud smooching noises in the background can puncture her giddy mood.

“Hey. I’m here with our ride.”

The familiar soft lilt of Lexa’s voice beside her ear sends a shiver through Clarke, goosebumps rising along her exposed arms.

“I’ll be right out,” she says with equal softness, acutely aware of Octavia listening in. “See you in a minute.”

She’s met with a raised eyebrow when she hangs up.

“I cannot believe I just had to witness you, a grown-ass woman, swooning with my own two eyes,” Octavia mocks, but it lacks her usual acerbic bite. “Seriously, you’ve got it _bad_, Griffin. Should I be looking for a new roommate in the near future? You gonna move into a cute little two-bed, two-bathroom love nest in WeHo together? Maybe adopt a couple of Pomeranians?”

Clarke glares, even as she feels heat creep up her neck again. Because, no, she definitely has not entertained idle fantasies about what living with Lexa might be like at this early stage in their relationship. (Idyllic, probably. Full of light and laughter and multiple orgasms. And never a bad hair day.)

Besides, if the note in Roan’s email is anything to go by, they’ll have to find someone else to take over Clarke’s share of the rent for completely different reasons, which is the real source of her current turmoil. But that’s a crisis for tomorrow; she doesn’t want to put a damper on this evening before it’s begun.

_Denial, thy name is Clarke._

Plastering on a megawatt smile, she grabs her clutch and drops her phone inside, snapping the clasp closed with a flourish.

“Don’t wait up,” she says and blows a kiss as she swings out the door.

“Don’t let her pressure you into going past second base,” Octavia calls after Clarke’s retreating form.

  


* * *

  


The sun is already low and the few wispy clouds are dipped in rose and orange, but the sunset has nothing on Lexa.

Clarke falters mid-step and her breath catches once she spots her girlfriend waiting by the gate, relaxed in a heather grey bomber jacket over a dark, clingy shirt tucked into tight black jeans. Leaning against the wall, hands in her pockets, she exudes that unshowy, natural self-assurance that’s just so damn appealing it borders on being offensive.

The click of high heels on the paving stones alerts her to Clarke’s approach and Lexa looks up. Her expression shifts, lips parting as she gives Clarke a slow, deliberate once-over.

The reaction gives Clarke a surge of confidence and puts a little swing in her hips. She greets Lexa at the gate with a kiss, landing a brief peck at the edge of her mouth. But she stays close, stays in Lexa’s space, caught up in a heavenly cloud of perfume and shampoo. Lexa’s hair always smells fucking amazing and tonight is no exception.

“You look…” Lexa trails off, hoisting her eyebrows. She draws in a short breath and releases it slowly. “Incredible.”

Clarke basks in the praise.

“So do you. In fact, much too gorgeous for me not to—”

She dips her head and brings their lips together. In these heels, Clarke has a couple of inches on Lexa and the reversed height difference adds an exciting new dimension to their kiss. It kindles something in Clarke, a spark that ignites and sends a flare of heat up from her belly.

She tries to quell it before she gets carried away. “We should, um…”

Lexa nods, the tip of her nose brushing against Clarke’s and it causes the rest of that sentence to stall in her throat. Warm hands find Clarke’s waist and give a light squeeze.

“Yeah. I’m fairly sure we just made Drew’s whole week.”

Clarke’s nose wrinkles. “Drew?”

“Our Lyft.”

She looks past Lexa’s shoulder towards the silver sedan idling at the curb. When the man behind the wheel gives them an enthusiastic thumbs up, Clarke groans.

“Great, a perv.”

She fully expects the journey to be filled with uncomfortable silences punctuated with him leering at them in the rear view mirror but, as it turns out, Drew is gayer than Jonathan Van Ness sashaying across someone’s living room in a see-through mesh crop top. When he gushes about how happy he is to see queer couples living out and proud in LA, in stark contrast to his own experience of growing up gay and invisible in rural Iowa, Clarke warms to him considerably.

“Well, he was adorable,” she says, looping her arm through Lexa’s as they stroll into the restaurant, a swanky up-and-coming spot whose executive chef has won local acclaim and plenty of online buzz for innovative deconstructions of traditional Middle Eastern cuisine (according to the LA Mag article Lexa texted to her earlier, anyway). “Is it weird that I kind of want to adopt him?”

“He seemed equally charmed by you too.” Lexa glances at Clarke sidelong, a sloping smile gracing her lips. “Can’t say I blame him.”

Clarke rewards her with a soft look and a kiss on the cheek. Whispers next to Lexa’s ear, “You’re already getting lucky tonight, but keep the compliments flowing.”

They compose themselves long enough for the hostess to escort them to their booth and take their drinks order—a bottle of something sparkling, as befits the occasion. Once she leaves them to peruse the menu, Lexa slides closer across the plush velvet-backed seating. She reaches for Clarke’s knee under the table, palm sliding smoothly upwards until Clarke intercepts, pinning Lexa with a look and a raised eyebrow.

Lexa just looks back, as if to say: _what_?

The tips of her fingers twitch against the sensitive skin of Clarke’s inner thigh, but she holds fast to Lexa’s wrist.

“Not a chance, buster.” Clarke purses her lips. “I’m not letting you,” she pitches her voice lower, “finger me at dinner.”

Green eyes darken perceptibly in the candlelight. Lexa’s mouth twists. “Consider it an appetiser; a prelude to the main course.”

“_Lex_.”

She laughs prettily and withdraws. “Alright. I’ll behave.” In the lull, she studies the first page of the leather-bound menu in front of her. Then her eyes flick back to Clarke. “For now.”

Clarke shakes her head in mild exasperation, but she can’t put the thought out of her mind now that Lexa has planted the seed. Her eyes are inexorably drawn to Lexa’s hand on the tabletop, strikingly tan against the crisp white tablecloth. Maybe Clarke’s fascination is verging on slight obsession, but she can’t get over how beautiful Lexa’s fingers are; graceful yet capable, and skilful too. It gives her a secret thrill to know what they feel like on her body, pressing inside of her and, right this moment, that intimate knowledge is making her very attuned to the damp heat between her legs.

She’s still stuck on those thoughts when the waiter swings by to pop and pour the champagne. Tongue-tied, tripping over her words while she orders a trio of dishes from the tapas menu, she feels the weight of Lexa’s stare on her for the duration. Doesn’t miss the gleam of understanding in Lexa’s eyes, the subtle arch of Lexa’s brow as she confidently reels off her own choices and the waiter scribbles them down.

When they’re alone again, Clarke takes a long sip of ice water to try to cool herself down, to recover her lost composure, only for Lexa to lean in and obliterate it once more.

“I want to touch you so, so badly.”

It’s pitched at a discreet volume but Lexa may as well have blasted it over a loudspeaker for the way Clarke jolts, nearly causing a spillage as she fumbles to put her glass down. She grips the edge of the table with both hands, eyes sliding shut at the sensation of Lexa’s breath hot against her ear, the barest graze of lips sending a whole cascade of tingles down her neck.

“I know you’re wet for me already,” Lexa continues in a husky whisper and it’s almost torturous, because Clarke can’t do what she desperately wants to in response, which is to seize Lexa by the collar and aggressively make out until Lexa is panting roughly into her mouth. Which would get them politely asked to tone it down at best, ejected from the restaurant at worst. Instead, Clarke employs every last bit of self-control and stifles a tiny whimper.

Then Lexa just has to throw further fuel on the fire by adding, “Can’t decide if I’m going to get you off with my fingers or my tongue first.”

Clarke is really starting to curse this intimate dinner suggestion—what she wouldn't give for a secluded bar room nook right now, or a bed; a bed would be fantastic—when Lexa moves away, leaving Clarke bereft at the abrupt loss of contact.

She sways slightly, opening her eyes to discover Lexa radiating deep self-satisfaction beside her, a beacon of cockiness sitting in a sapphic slouch.

Clarke puts on a scowl, ignoring her burning cheeks—burning _everywhere_—and the discordant beat her heart is pounding out against her sternum. “Rude.”

“The rudest.”

“You’ll pay for this later.”

“I’m counting on it.” Lexa smirks. “But, first, we are going to toast the fuck out of your success and get moderately drunk on vintage champagne.” As she raises her flute, everything about her softens. “To you, Clarke.”

They clink glasses and Clarke‘s chest swells, succumbing to the warm affection that Lexa wraps around her name, like it’s the most precious word in Lexa’s vocabulary.

  


* * *

  


Over several small plates, every one of them a miniature marvel, from the lobster couscous to the lamb shwarma to the spiced almond baklava that they opt to split between them, the conversation flows just as easily as the champagne. They grow tipsier as the bubbles go to their heads, but Lexa keeps to her solemn vow to be on her best behaviour, aside from sneaking occasional glances at the deep V of Clarke’s neckline—and stealing bites of her food.

Lexa’s smiles are looser, her laughter readier as they share stories they neglected to mention on their daily FaceTimes, tidbits about their respective weeks, among other inconsequential things. Clarke has missed this too: just, soaking up Lexa’s presence; all the subtle nuances of in-person interaction that are lost over blurry pixels and momentary drops of audio. But as her eyes trace over Lexa’s features, a tight little ball of apprehension begins to form in Clarke’s gut, knowing that when shooting starts these moments will be fewer and far between, and she falls silent.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“What’s on your mind?” Lexa asks once the quiet stretches too long. “You had this… faraway look there.”

Clarke’s throat constricts and she swallows a sip of champagne to ease the tightness. She tries on a smile while avoiding Lexa’s probing gaze.

“I guess it just hit me. How much everything is going to change soon.”

God, more than Lexa knows, and Clarke feels a pang of guilt for withholding one very important detail, but she isn’t ready to drop that particular bombshell yet.

For a moment, Lexa says nothing. Then:

“Not us.”

Clarke’s eyes snap to her.

“Whatever happens, you’ve got me.” The corner of Lexa’s mouth lifts. “This includes being your plus one for the Emmys, just to be clear.”

Her smile spreads a fraction wider at Clarke’s answering slow blink.

”I want to be there to kiss you after they read out your name for winning Best Supporting Actress. And not just a respectable peck on the lips. I’m talking a full-blown, ‘returned home from war’ passionate clinch in front of Cate Blanchett and a global TV audience.”

Lexa’s tone is only slightly wry, but there’s an earnestness that brims in the warm green hues of her eyes which suggests she means every word with absolute conviction. Clarke doesn’t think she’s ever had someone believe in her so completely; not even her parents, for all their encouragement over the years. That belief might be misplaced, undoubtedly overestimated, but with Lexa in her corner she feels like she could take on the world and win every accolade.

“Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Drama Series,” she corrects automatically, “but, okay, consider it a date.”

Lexa shoots her that doting, amused look; easily Clarke’s favourite of all Lexa’s expressions. It makes her pulse quicken and fills her chest with a pleasant, thrumming ache, and she’s so, so close to spilling her guts now, whatever the ramifications.

She drops the eye contact before she gives in to that urge. Distracts herself by twirling the stem of her champagne flute between her fingers, her stare fixated on the last dregs of pale, straw-coloured liquid at the bottom of the glass.

She settles on testing the waters instead.

“You say all that now, but…” She worries her lower lip between her teeth, breathes in then expels a sigh through her nostrils. “The reality is, I’ll be filming solidly for at least four months, working _insane_ hours, which means we’ll have hardly any time together, and I—”

A gentle “Clarke” brings the rambling to a halt.

Lexa carefully pries the glass from Clarke’s grip. She tangles their fingers together, rubbing the pad of her thumb slowly back and forth over Clarke’s knuckles. Bit by bit, it soothes the anxious flutter below her ribs.

“We’ll make it work.”

Lexa sounds so rock-solid in her certainty that Clarke dares to hope.

She chances a look over then, and what she sees brings an unbidden smirk to her lips.

It’s been her experience that, in LA—especially inside the warped bubble of the entertainment industry—people are always scanning the room, always looking for someone more famous, more powerful. But Lexa’s eyes are only ever on Clarke, and at this precise moment, her attention is laser-focused on the couple of inches of cleavage on display.

Lexa’s weakness for her tits is gratifying enough for Clarke to put aside her doubts for now. Enough to make her lean in without a word, closing the distance. What begins chastely escalates the instant Lexa opens her mouth and Clarke gets a taste of the citrusy sweetness of champagne on Lexa’s tongue. She has to forcibly pull herself away, even as Lexa cranes her neck forward to chase the retreat. Eyes dark and covetous. An intensity in her stare that blazes across Clarke’s skin and makes her seriously consider reeling Lexa into a fuller, filthier kiss.

But a sense of decorum prevails. Barely.

“We should get the check,” Clarke says, slightly breathless at being on the receiving end of that charged look.

The lust clears from Lexa’s face gradually. Her forehead creases. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

Lexa’s frown deepens and Clarke allows herself a second to enjoy the endearing sight of scrunched eyebrows, Lexa’s puzzlement amplified by the three glasses of bubbly they’ve each consumed.

Wearing a silly, irrepressible little grin, Clarke pulls her hand from Lexa’s grasp. She reaches up to smooth away the wrinkle between Lexa’s brows with gentle fingertips, but the confusion remains in her gaze.

“I’m not okay, Lexa,” Clarke says, “because I’m about two seconds away from climbing into your lap and treating our fellow diners to a live sex show. And I’m not ready to become _that_ kind of performer.”

She watches Lexa’s expression transform, doing a complete 180. The air around them seems to contract as Clarke’s mouth becomes the focal point of Lexa’s attention again. All of a sudden, it’s like someone turned up the thermostat in the room. Clarke is sweating, and this dress feels much too tight and heavy against her overheated skin when Lexa looks like she wants to eat her alive.

Lexa licks her lips and that brief glimpse of tongue goes straight to Clarke’s core. “I’ll flag the waiter.”

  


* * *

  


There are hands everywhere, roaming over hips and sides, cupping Clarke’s breasts.

“God, this dress,” Lexa mutters, before surging into another deep kiss. Rough and greedy, it makes Clarke clench, arousal pulsing hard between her legs.

“I only put it on so you could take it off,” she admits as Lexa’s mouth veers to the side, skimming down Clarke’s throat.

Her breath hitches as long, slender fingers trail up her inner thigh and this time Clarke puts up no resistance. She does her best to stifle a gasp, hips pitching forward as Lexa brushes over the front of her soaked underwear. She feels Lexa shudder, the hot, humid burst of Lexa’s noisy exhale, the low groan smothered against her neck.

“Shh.”

Lexa leans back to meet eye to eye in the semi-darkness of the entryway. “Octavia’s home?”

Clarke traps her bottom lip between her teeth and nods, placing her hands on Lexa’s shoulders to steady herself. Silvery moonlight spills into the living room, but even in the relative gloom, Clarke registers the thin ring of green that encircles dilated pupils, and the wet shine of reddened, swollen lips.

“Think you can be quiet?” Lexa whispers.

Before Clarke can properly formulate a reply, those fingers resume their exploration, rubbing her through the thin barrier of her underwear. In the next breath, Lexa pushes the scrap of fabric aside and Clarke is unable to bite back the ragged moan that escapes when Lexa touches her directly.

“Shh,” Lexa echoes; a smug taunt. “Or do you want to get caught?”

“Well, you’re—” Clarke hisses back, only for Lexa’s thumb to find her clit. “_Fuck_.”

Whatever smart retort Clarke was about to issue is lost to the glide of Lexa’s fingers. Lexa slicks them slowly; thoroughly. Ignoring the urgent rock of Clarke’s hips, her attempts to squirm closer. Lexa strokes and teases and swirls until Clarke is aching for Lexa to go inside, her jaw straining with the effort to contain all the needy sounds that threaten to wake her roommate.

She almost loses the battle when Lexa wordlessly drops to her knees. Eyes glinting in the dark, Lexa hikes the dress up to Clarke’s waist and even that faint rustle seems far too loud amid the stillness of the house. Lexa takes hold of her hips and leans in. At the first wash of warm breath over her, Clarke’s grip on Lexa’s shoulders tightens, crumpling the soft satin of the bomber jacket. The second, fractionally closer gust makes Clarke’s knees buckle. She’s dizzy with anticipation. Hyper aware of the indent of each of Lexa’s fingers, the tiniest shift of Lexa’s muscles under her hands.

Clarke feels a tug, the whisper of cool air on her skin as Lexa slides her panties down her legs then stuffs them into a jacket pocket for safekeeping. Something about that speaks to Clarke, it being practical, considerate, _and_ hot—and if that isn’t Lexa down to a T.

Not that Clarke gets to dwell on it. Because she hears Lexa’s sharp inhale and only has half a second to prepare for the broad, flat sweep of Lexa’s tongue.

A raspy groan is out before Clarke can prevent it. She sinks her teeth into the back of her hand to muffle the next one, as Lexa runs circles around her clit. That gorgeous, wonderful, talented mouth latches on, Lexa switching between gentle suction and firm laps of her tongue that soon have Clarke’s calves trembling and her breath coming in quick, short bursts.

Lexa angles lower, licking around and around, dragging her tongue up from Clarke’s entrance to swipe at the underside of her clit. Returning again and again. Pushing just the tip of her tongue inside and curling it in a way that makes Clarke writhe helplessly.

She wants to howl when Lexa withdraws, barely lifting her mouth to murmur, “I could do this all night.”

“Great, but how about you focus on the next five minutes?” If Clarke sounds curt, it’s only because she feels like she might combust. “_Please_.”

She sees the flash of Lexa’s smile, the bright gleam of her teeth in the moonlight, and Clarke lets out a mini growl, about to lodge a serious, profanity-filled complaint when Lexa pulls her closer by the hips. She tilts up, arching gratefully into the scorching heat of Lexa’s open mouth.

Clarke arrives at the precipice within moments, biting her fist again in a bid to stop herself from crying out. Somehow, miraculously, she doesn’t make a sound beyond a strangled gasp around her knuckles as she grinds to a shuddering climax against Lexa’s lips and tongue. For a second her mind goes blank, fuzzy with static, before the heat rushes over her and every muscle pulls taut. Lexa holds her there, pinned to the wall. Continues to devour her through all the tiny twitches and spasms until Clarke finally twists her body away, too sensitive to withstand any more.

Breathing hard, she reaches for Lexa with trembling hands, hauls her up by the wrists and into waiting arms. Clarke kisses Lexa with bruising force and a heavy amount of tongue, tasting herself in every space of Lexa’s mouth.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” Lexa asks several minutes later, deliciously breathless from their torrid back and forth.

Clarke’s brain isn’t exactly operating at full capacity yet, so she doesn’t pick up on Lexa’s meaning. “For what?”

“Being rude,” Lexa supplies, a smirk hovering near her lips.

Then it clicks.

“Oh.” Clarke moves her arms up to loop around Lexa’s shoulders, leaning into her frame. There’s still a wobble in Clarke’s knees and she clings to Lexa for support, but mostly it’s to satisfy this perpetual need to be close to her. “_That_.”

Clarke sucks some air through her teeth.

“I don’t know... I’m not totally convinced you’ve seen the error of your ways.”

Lexa’s hands creep low over Clarke’s backside, fitting around the curves of her ass.

“What can I do to prove it?”

She hums. “Well—”

They both freeze at the sound of a door handle turning, but before Octavia can poke her head out and yell obscenities at them, Clarke bundles Lexa into her bedroom.

  


* * *

  


After the fit of giggles dissipates, they spend a good long while making out against the door. Soft sighs and heavy breaths fill the air as their mouths slant together with gentle, insistent hunger.

“Think she heard us?” Lexa asks, breaking away to nose along the line of Clarke’s jaw. She nips playfully at the hinge.

Clarke huffs out another laugh. “God, I hope not.”

She pushes Lexa’s jacket from her shoulders and lets it drop to the floor. Runs her palms up Lexa’s arms to settle on either side of her neck, beneath the thick fall of chestnut waves. The soft strands tickle Clarke’s knuckles and the bones of her wrists.

“Although... it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Lexa draws back to look at her, a brow ticking up in question.

Clarke shrugs. “I can’t help it if I’m just that good.” She pokes her tongue into her cheek, raising her chin as she holds Lexa’s lidded gaze, playing up the false bravado. “I mean, there must be a reason you keep coming back for more.”

“Mm.” Green eyes drift downwards. “I can think of at least two.”

Clarke cracks a grin. They both crowd in, all smiles even as their lips reconnect. Soft presses that soon shift into something altogether dirtier once Clarke slips her tongue inside. Her hands wander, palming Lexa’s chest, giving a purposeful squeeze that earns a breathy chuckle.

It galvanises Clarke, impatient to uncover more skin. She gathers the hem of Lexa’s shirt and lifts until Lexa gets the message: _off_. They separate only to rid her of it, crushing into another hot and heavy kiss as soon as Clarke tosses the item of clothing away. Lexa’s hands tangle in her hair, directing Clarke’s mouth while she grapples with the button on Lexa’s jeans. With the fly open, Clarke wastes no time in pushing below Lexa’s underwear.

A mutual groan gets caught between them as Clarke’s fingers thread through soft curls and into so much slippery heat.

She lets out a shaky, “Lex.” Tips their foreheads together, overwhelmed and awed for a moment by the flood she finds. Her other hand is flat against Lexa’s stomach, feeling the muscles twitch and bunch beneath her palm.

“Are you surprised? Making you come is the ultimate turn-on.” Lexa cups Clarke’s face and claims a lengthy open-mouthed kiss that underscores the point. “Nobody’s gotten under my skin like you do.”

“Is that what you tell all your girlfriends?” Clarke jokes, hand sliding lower, exploring as best she can within the restrictive confines of tight denim. She’s rewarded by a quiet gasp and the jolt of Lexa’s hips, and she revels in it.

“You’re making fun of me, but it’s true.”

“No. Trust me, I get it,” Clarke says more seriously, eyes searching Lexa’s face, falling a little harder for that gorgeous pout with every passing second. Hope flaring a little brighter. She swallows, lashes flickering. “I feel the same.”

“Yeah?”

The already negligible gap between them shrinks to nothing.

Clarke nods, rubbing her nose alongside Lexa’s.

A slight readjustment, a shared sigh, and they’re kissing again. Lexa pushes into the contact and the pressure of Clarke’s fingers, an unspoken instruction that Clarke reads loud and clear.

She pulls her hand from Lexa’s jeans, smirking at the pained whine it gets her. Plants her palm in the centre of Lexa’s chest and walks her backwards. Their mouths remain fused throughout, trading kisses that grow messier, wetter as Lexa’s focus is divided between the zipper of Clarke’s dress and not tripping over her own feet. She only gets it halfway undone before Clarke gives her a sharp little shove and she lands with a soft thud on the bed, the mattress springs giving a squeak of protest beneath her.

Clarke pauses to take stock of Lexa half undressed and sprawled across the sheets. A flush on her skin, hard nipples poking through the flimsy lace cups of her bra. Lexa’s underwear choices usually lean more towards comfort and utility, but this set must be new. Clarke would remember if Lexa had worn it before, because that shade of soft peach is spectacular on her and the cut hardly leaves anything to the imagination.

It’s difficult for Clarke to think, to breathe as she stands there, dry-mouthed, drinking in the view. Her eyes rove over Lexa’s torso, from her trim waist to the rise of her tits and the sparkly shimmer on her collarbones that Clarke is definitely going to file away for future teasing.

(Because glitter body lotion, _really_? Although, right now Clarke is just very appreciative of what it adds to the overall aesthetic.)

She forces her gaze up at last and the hot-eyed stare that greets her causes a spike of need in her belly and another warm gush between her legs.

It’s a joint effort to tear off Lexa’s jeans and underwear. Neither have the patience for a slow reveal. Lexa unhooks her own bra and Clarke climbs on, still in her dress, pushing Lexa back against the sheets and straddling her thigh.

“Fuck, come here,” Lexa says in a rush as she reaches up, yanking Clarke down by the cheeks, swallowing the noise Clarke makes as she slides against tensed muscle and her hands cover Lexa’s breasts.

More groans spill out as they rock into one another, chasing friction. Frantic and graceless to begin with, but they soon find an undulating rhythm that hits the spot. And Clarke is so immersed in the thrill, the slick sounds, the hand on her ass urging her along, the furnace that is Lexa’s mouth moving hungrily against her own, that she almost doesn’t realise Lexa is already shaking apart. She comes quickly, quietly, with one final jerk and a broken whimper lost against Clarke’s lips.

Whatever sense of accomplishment Clarke might feel in the moment, she sets it aside in pursuit of her own orgasm. She’s close. Feels that pressure coiling low, ultimate bliss just beyond reach.

“Need you inside,” she tells Lexa, attacking her mouth with renewed vigour, breath coming in small shudders now. Blindly, Clarke searches for Lexa’s hand and jams it between her legs, gasping in relief as she grinds down on the heel of Lexa’s palm. Another gasp-turned-groan gets stuck in her throat when Lexa sinks two fingers home, fucking into her swift and hard. Exactly what Clarke is craving.

She jogs her hips, greedily seeking more, and Lexa delivers with brisk, deep thrusts, despite the awkward angle that must be hell on her wrist. Between the relentless onslaught of kisses and the wonders Lexa is doing between her thighs, Clarke soon finds herself labouring for breath. She drags her mouth away, panting into the sweat-damp skin of Lexa’s throat instead.

“Oh, fuck. Don’t stop,” Clarke pleads, nails digging into Lexa’s pumping forearm, other hand grasping roughly at the soft flesh of Lexa’s breast, rolling the nipple beneath her palm.

But just as Clarke is arching, beginning to quake as she barrels towards the edge, Lexa slows her movements to a near glacial pace, and the orgasm that was mere seconds away recedes sharply.

Clarke could sob at the injustice.

“No. No, Lexa, come _on_,” she says through gritted teeth. “I was right there!”

“And I’ll take care of you, don’t worry, just...” Long fingers weave into Clarke’s hair while Lexa continues to fuck her much too slowly for Clarke’s current liking. “Look at me.”

She huffs.

Lexa tugs on her scalp.

“Clarke.”

She picks her head up, ready to unleash a few choice words. Except she loses her steam in an instant, disarmed completely by Lexa’s expression. So full of _yearning_ that it robs Clarke of speech and the limited reserves of oxygen in her lungs.

Their eyes lock and that connection, combined with Lexa’s fingertips rubbing with precision and purpose, feeling out that one spot, brings Clarke back to the brink with dizzying speed.

All it takes is the direct, sustained pressure of a thumb on her clit and she’s done for.

Her jaw drops and a full-throated groan trips out as her whole body clenches tight, liquid heat spilling around Lexa’s fingers. And the last thing Clarke sees before her eyes squeeze shut is the triumphant little smile adorning Lexa’s beautiful, beautiful face.

  


* * *

  


Exhaustion eventually catches up with them once the greyish-blue light of a new day starts to edge across the room. Lexa’s lips had been charting a meandering path across the tops of Clarke’s breasts, but now her mouth lies slack in the valley between, puffs of muggy breath superheating Clarke’s skin with every exhale.

“Lex, are you awake?”

A mumble in the negative raises a small smile.

Clarke adores Lexa like this: soft and spent and pliant in the aftermath of wearing each other out until dawn, when desire gives way to fatigue and the loose entanglement of sweaty limbs. Clarke is in desperate need of rest herself, but despite the bone-tiredness and dim ache of sore muscles, she can’t seem to quieten her mind enough for sleep to take over. The cyclical build and release of tension had held her introspection at bay for a while, but silence and inertia brings anxious thoughts bubbling back to the surface.

“Sorry. Go to sleep,” she whispers and runs a reassuring hand down Lexa’s spine, at the same time trying to ignore the churning unease she feels, the weight pressing down on her chest that has nothing to do with Lexa’s head being pillowed there.

Heaving a sigh, Lexa shifts and rearranges her body so that she’s pressed alongside Clarke, huddled so close that her breath fans across Clarke’s jaw.

“I can almost hear the cogs turning in your brain,” Lexa comments after a minute, voice soft and drowsy. She drops a tender kiss on Clarke’s shoulder and snakes an arm over her stomach, curving a hand around the jut of her hip bone. “What’s got you so… thinky?”

A snort. “‘Thinky’. Wow, such eloquence.”

“You broke that part of my cerebral cortex three orgasms ago.” Lexa pinches Clarke’s waist lightly. “Stop trying to deflect.”

It’s Clarke’s turn to sigh.

She’d hoped she might get a short reprieve. Enjoy a couple more days of uncomplicated (naked) quality time with Lexa before they had to have this conversation. Clarke could lie, come up with any number of excuses to remain in this perfect bubble of intimacy for a little longer, but Lexa deserves better.

So Clarke pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Gnaws on the corner of her lip and stares at a fixed point on the ceiling as she summons the words she’s been dreading to say out loud for fear of what happens next.

They’re in a good place, she reasons. The foundations feel solid, but this is their first real stress test, and—

“Clarke?”

Right.

She runs her eyes over Lexa’s face.

“Earlier, you said we’d make it work.”

Lexa levers up onto one elbow, a clear-eyed alertness in her gaze now. “Yeah,” she says slowly, cautiously. “And I meant it.”

The infinite, steady patience that Lexa displays as she waits for Clarke to go on, thumb drawing tiny patterns on her hip, helps settle the nerves. Gives her the courage to continue.

“What if I told you production is moving to Toronto next month?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://femininenachos.tumblr.com).


End file.
